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Dorothy Fox 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“HOW IT ALL HAPPENED,” Etc. 

TYltyj, o tou&icu P 


WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS 



PHILADELPHIA 

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J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1871. 

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DOROTHY FOX 


CHAPTER I. — THE FORTUNE OF WAR. 

T was in the 
summer of 
1856. The 
war being at 
an end, 
England be- 
gan to for- 
get the ex- 
cite m e n t 
and military 
ardour 
which for 
two years 
had p e r- 
vaded her 
every nook 
and corner. 
But at the 
principal 
, f a r seaports the 
memory 
was still kept alive by reckless soldiers and 
sailors spending their hard-earned money, 
and by their less fortunate comrades wander- 
ing about pale and haggard, some on 
crutches, some in splints, waiting to hear the 
decision of pension or discharge— the only 
two alternatives left for them. 

At the top of one of those narrow streets 
of the old town of Plymouth, leading from 
the Barbican, a crowd of sailors, fish-women, 
apprentices (boys and girls), had assembled 
to witness a fight. Through this motley 
crowd a soldier-like man was almost vainly 
endeavouring to push his way. He was pale 
and thin from recent illness, and his bandaged 
arm showed the cause of his suffering. 

“ Good heavens ! ” he thought, “ how sick 
and faint I feel ! I wish I had listened to 
the doctor, and not have been in such a 
hurry to come out. I wonder if there is any 
place hereabout where I could sit down for 
a little while.” 

He walked more rapidly on towards the 
Guildhall, passing a saddler’s, an ironmon- 
ger’s, a goldsmith’s, until he came to a shop 
with a fat gilt lamb hanging over the door, 
and having opposite it an old round clock, 
stretching its face into the street. Here a 
curious sensation came over him, which made 
the lamb and the clock’s face seem to change 
places ; and he had just sense enough left to 


turn into the open door and sink into a 
chair, as a voice reached him from the dis- 
tance : “ How can I serve thee?” Then all 
became still and dark and blank. 

The name of the young man was Charles 
Verschoyle ; the shop he had entered be- 
longed to Nathaniel Fox, cloth and woollen 
draper ; and the voice which inquired, “ How 
can I serve thee?” came from his daughter 
Dorothy, who, while she was speaking, saw, to 
her great terror and perplexity, the stranger’s 
head sink back, and a pallor, as of death, 
spread itself over his face. 

She gave a little cry, and exclaimed, “ Oh 
dear ! what can be the matter with him ? And 
Mark away, and Judith out ! What shall I do?” 

She then leaned across the counter, saying, 
in a louder voice, “ Friend ! friend ! art thou 
ill?” And then something she saw in the 
white face forced her, despite her fear, to 
run forward and put out her arm to support 
his falling head. Now, seeing his bandaged 
arm, she dismissed an idea which had crossed 
her mind that, perhaps, he had been drinking. 
She said tenderly, “ Poor fellow, it is his arm 
that has caused this sudden faintness. If I 
had but some water, or mother’s smelling- 
salts, he would most likely revive.” 

At this moment the inner door of the shop 
opened, and a bright-faced, middle-aged wo- 
man, with a thick-frilled white cap, appeared. 

“ Oh, J udith ! J udith ! come here. I am 
so glad thou art returned. While thou hast 
been away, see, this poor man has come into 
the shop ; and he has fainted. Do run and 
get some water.” 

Before Judith obeyed, she came over to 
have a closer inspection of the sufferer, 
saying, “ Are you sure, now, he’s swooning ? 
— it isn’t tricks or drink?” But, without 
waiting for a reply, she continued, after look- 
ing at the face, almost as white as the kerchief 
against which it leaned, “God forgive the 
thought ! and his poor broken arm tied up 
to his side.” 

The young man heaved a deep sigh. 

“ Oh, do run, Judith, and get the water !” 
exclaimed Dorothy, anxiously bending over 
him ; and he, suddenly opening his eyes, met 
the earnest gaze, took in the chiklish face, 
wondered where he" was, then leaned his 
head back, and forgot it all again. 

Judith returned with the water, and 
sprinkled it over his face; while Dorothy 



6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


chafed his hands, as she had seen her mother 
do to her Aunt Abigail. 

“ Judith, dost thou think mother and father 
would object, if we asked him to rest awhile 
on the sofa until he finds strength enough to 
walk home?” 

Judith looked dubious. Master and mistress 
wereaway. If they had been at home,shewould 
not have hesitated. And Mark was out too. 
“ No,” she thought, “we had better not.” 

Dorothy looked grave. “ Thou might ask 
him to stay until Mark comes. Then he could 
fetch him a cab. It is nearly five o’clock ; 
and Mark is always here at half-past.” 

Judith shook her head: she was not cer- 
tain whether it was safe. 

“ Mother says we are always to do good 
one to another,” persisted Dorothy ; “ and 
the text quoted last First-day in Dorcas 
Horsenail’s discourse was^-‘ Be not forget- 
ful to entertain strangers ; for, thereby, some 
have entertained angels unawares.’ ” 

“ Well, then, I wish this was one !” ex- 
claimed Judith, in perplexity, “and that he 
would fly away ; for, as it is, I don’t know 
what to do with him, and that’s the truth.” 

“ Hush !” said Dorothy, with the double 
intention of reproving Judith’s levity, and 
because the stranger was coming to himself. 
She shrank back; and Judith, finding she was 
expected to take the initiative, demanded, 
“Are you better, sir?” 

“Better? Oh, yes !” returned the young 
man, with a short gasp between each sentence. 
“What has been the matter? Where am I? 
I am afraid I have been giving some trouble.” 

“ Indeed, no,” said Dorothy, coming forward. 
“ I am only glad thou wert able to reach here.” 

“You are both very kind,” he answered. 
“ I am quite unable to thank you.” And 
such a soft expression came into his dark 
eyes and lit up his wan face, that all Judith’s 
former prudence gave way, and, to Dorothy’s 
great satisfaction, she begged he would walk 
into the parlour behind the shop, and rest 
on the sofa for awhile. 

“ Nobody will disturb you there, sir. And 
if you don’t feel strong enough to walk by the 
time our shopman comes, he can call ye a cab.” 

Thinking that she was the mistress of the 
house, Captain Verschoyle thanked her, and 
accepting her invitation and' assistance (for 
he still felt very unsteady), he went into the 
substantially furnished parlour, threw himself 
on the large old-fashioned sofa, and was asleep 
before Dorothy returned with the ginger cor- 
dial she had been getting to revive him. 

Very few customers were likely to come 
into the shop, for Nathaniel Fox’s business 


was principally confined to wholesale and 
private orders. So, telling Judith she would 
sit quietly until Mark returned, and she was 
ready, Dorothy seated herself in the only 
approach to an easy chair — one of carved oak, 
black, and stiff-backed. Taking her knitting 
in her hand, she furtively glanced at the 
sleeper, but, finding he was quite unconscious, 
she let her hand drop idly in her lap, and her 
eyes gaze earnestly and curiously. “ He 
must have been very ill,” she thought. 
“How beautifully white his hand is!” and 
then she regarded the little pink-dimpled#pair 
which lay in her own lap with a critical and 
rather dissatisfied expression. “What long 
eyelashes he has ! ” and first one eye and then 
the other is shut to see if a glimpse of her 
own can be obtained. No, nothing but the 
tip of the provoking little nose ; and her gaze 
falls again on the young man who, from his 
bearing, may perhaps be a soldier wounded 
in the war. At this thought she gives a little 
shudder, takes up her knitting, and works 
away most industriously for fully ten minutes. 
Then the click-click of the needles cease, and 
her thoughts begin to wander. Her reverie 
this time is so deep that she does not notice 
that the sleeper has awakened, and is in his 
turn attentively inspecting her. As she sat 
in the old black carved chair, in her gown 
of soft grey stuff, with her rebellious hair (in 
spite of brushing and tight fastening up) 
twined into little golden rings, her fair face, 
almost infantine in its youthfulness, gave such 
a ridiculous impression of primness and ju se- 
nescence that Captain Verschoyle was re- 
minded of nothing so much as of some lovely 
child playing at being a staid woman. 

The deep tones of the Guildhall clock 
striking six were now heard, the chimes of 
St. Andrew’s repeated the hour, and Judith 
softly opened the door, closing it again as she 
saw Dorothy put her finger to her lip. But 
the disturbance seemed to have roused the 
young man, who opened his eyes and sat up. 

“ Dost thou feel better ?” asked Dorothy 
anxiously. 

“ Oh, yes ; I am all right again now ; but 
you do not mean to say it is -six o’clock ? 
Why, what have I been thinking of ? I had 
no idea of going to sleep when I sat down — 
not that I am particularly clear about what 
happened after I reached here.” 

“ Did thou feel ill suddenly, or was it thy 
intention to come here?” 

“ No ; I was passing the door when I be- 
came quite faint.” 

“ Thy arm doubtless was the cause. I see 
it is bandaged,” she said with a pitiful voice. 


DOROTHY FOX. 


7 


“ Oh ! my wound is a mere scratch,” re- 
plied Captain Verschoyle. “ I am weak from 
fever and ague, and though I have been in 
Plymouth a month, this is the first time I 
have ventured so far. The doctor advised 
me against going out to-day, but I thought I 
was much stronger than it seems I am. I do 
not know what would have become of me if I 
hadn’t had strength enough to stagger in here. 
Fate was unusually good to send me where I 
should meet with so much hospitality. I 
realD cannot express how very grateful I feel 
for your kindness.” 

“Oh ! do not speak of it,” said Dorothy; 
“ I only did what mother would have me do. 
Art thou sure that thou art sufficiently strong 
to walk ? Mark can get thee a cab in a few 
minutes.” 

“ Thanks ; I will not trouble him ; the air 
may revive me, for my head is a little heavy.” 
He took out a card and gave it to Dorothy, 
saying, “ Will you give my thanks to your 
mother ? Good-bye and he held out his 
hand. 

“Farewell,” she said, giving 'him hers; 
“ and I hope if thou should ever be near and 
feel weary, thou wilt not hesitate to come in 
and rest.” 

“ Thank you very much.” Again he looked 
round the shop, but seeing no one but Mark, 
he turned once more to Dorothy and said, 
“ You will not forget to give my adieus and 
thanks to your good mother,” and was gone. 

“ My good mother,” thought she ; “ what 
does he mean. Oh ! perhaps he thought that 
Judith was my mother,” and she smiled as 
she contrasted the two. Then she looked at 
the card and read, “ Captain Charles Egerton 
Verschoyle, 17th Lancers.” Then he was a 
soldier, one of the men belonging to a pro- 
fession her father and friends generally con- 
demned. She was still recalling all the details 
of this little episode when Judith appeared, 
ready dressed in her shawl and bonnet. 

“ Why, Judith, art thou ready ? I will not 
keep thee a moment.” 

“That’s right, dear; make haste, or the 
omnibus will be here. Mark is looking out 
for it to pass the church corner.” 

Dorothy was soon down again, and Judith 
inquired, “ Was the young man all right be- 
fore he left ? I saw him go as I was putting 
on my things.” 

“ Yes, but he said he had a headache ; and, 
dost thou know? I think he took thee for 
mother.” 

“ ’Twas like his impudence then, not to see 
*'Ou were a young lady, and his better most 
like.” 


“Why, Judith, how funny thou art !” laughed 
Dorothy ; “ how could he tell anything about 
us ? And besides thou would’st make a very 
nice mother, I think.” 

“ Bless your dear heart,” replied Judith 
fondly, “ it’s a proud mother I’d be with such a 
treasure as you in my keepin’ ; but marryin’ 
ain’t for the like of me, child. The only man 
I ever looked with favour on, things went 
bad with, and he had to go for a soldier, and 
whether he’s living or dead, poor boy, is more 
than I know now, or perhaps ever shall.” 

“ That was very sad !” said Dorothy, who 
knew Judith’s love-story by heart. “»The 
young man who was faint was a soldier. He 
did not look like one, did he ? ” 

“ Oh, they’re all good-looking enough,” 
returned Judith ; “ and I’m not one for send- 
ing them all to the bottomless pit wholesale, 
like the master does ; as the sayin’ is, ‘ no- 
body’s so black as they’re painted;’ and 
though there’s no soldiers at the Friends’ 
meetin’, they can’t keep the flesh and the 
devil out — no, nor never will as long as the 
members there are men and women.” 

Happily the omnibus arrived at this mo 
ment, or Judith would have given a lecture 
in justification of her speech, for being a strict 
Methodist, she could not resist a little hit now 
and then at what she considered the Quakers' 
spiritual pride, much as she approved ol 
them. 

The Foxes did not live at their place of 
business ; they had a pleasant old-fashioned 
country-house near Compton Giffard, and 
thither the omnibus was now carrying Judith 
and Dorothy, her mother and father being 
absent for a few days. Dorothy had gone in 
the morning to spend the day with Judith, 
who attended to the domestic duties of the 
Plymouth establishment. After leaving the 
omnibus they turned down a lane, at the 
widest part of which stood a long white gate, 
shaded by two thick elm trees. This was 
the entrance to the house, a rambling old- 
fashioned place, half of it the original manor 
dwelling, and the other half added to it at 
various times, as adorning or enlarging was 
needed. There was nothing at all pretentious, 
it only looked a comfortable, carefully kept 
house. Nathaniel Fox would have been hor- 
rified at the idea of its being thought anything 
but a house becoming a well-to-do tradesman 
to dwell in, yet more was expended on it than 
upon many a country seat. Order and neatness 
reigned everywhere, and the gardens had a 
prim old world air that set off to advantage 
the gabled roof, the small high narrow win- 
dows with their diamond panes, and the fan- 


* 


s 


DOROTHY FOX. 


tastic chimneys, half wreathed with long 
sprays of ivy and Virginian creeper. 

Just now the master and mistress were 
attending a quarterly meeting at Exeter. Gene- 
rally Cousin Dymond came and kept Dorothy 
company during these visits ; but she was ill, 
and Dorothy was for the first time left entirely 
alone with the two maids, Judith coming out 
every night, and seeing that all was going on 
rightly. On Thursday or Friday her mother 
would return, with such a deal to tell her — 
when Elizabeth Sparks was going to be mar- 
ried, and whether Josiah Crewdson intended 
coming to them on a visit. As she sat at 
supper in the old nursery, now dedicated to 
Judith’s especial use, she speculated on the 
probability of these events. 

“ I wish father would have given his con- 
sent to my being one of Elizabeth’s brides- 
maids, but he does not approve of their 
giving up the dress of Friends.” 

“Well, my dear,” answered Judith, “I 
quite hold with him there, as long as he 
stops short of the bonnet and cap ; but when 
I thought he was going to frump you up in 
them coal-scuttle things, I seemed to be 
turned against the dress entirely.” 

“ Oh ! Judith, I do so hope I shall not be 
obliged to wear them ; but the Crewdsons are 
so very strict. Thou knowest Josiah dressers 
as a Friend. I wonder if he is coming here ; 
father has asked him;” and Dorothy sat 
looking thoughtfully for a few minutes, then 
she suddenly demanded, “ Would thou be 
very sorry for me to be married, Judith?” 

“ Would I be sorry if I heard the sun was 
never to shine agen for me, darlin’?” said 
Judith, fondly ; and Dorothy went over and 
put her arms round her old nurse’s neck, 
saying, “ Why do people want to get married 
at all ? I cannot bear to think of ever leav- 
ing father and mother and thee ; but it will 
not be for years to come yet, I hope.” 

“Ah, now!” exclaimed Judith, “I won’t 
have ye wait too long. Grace was but twenty- 
one, and I’m not going to have my bantling 
behind her.” 

“ Oh ! but Grace is so happy.” 

“ Well, and so will you be too. Mr. Crewd- 
son is a worthy, good man, they all say, and 
so he need be, for it wouldn’t be a saint I’d 
think more than a match for my cosset.” 

“ Thou art a foolish fond old Judith,” 
said Dorothy, laughing; “as mother says, thy 
vanity will spoil me. I ought to be very 
thankful to be chosen by one so respected and 
highly approved of ; but sometimes I think, 
and wish — oh ! I cannot tell thee what, for I 
do not know myself — but there goes nine 


o’clock, so we must go down for reading.” 
And they descended into the dining room, and 
the two maids came in. Dorothy read the 
appointed chapters and an explanation, dis- 
missed them, and went to her room, attended 
by Judith, who persisted in considering her as 
helpless as when she was under her special 
care. Dorothy Fox at nineteen was both 
older and younger than most girls of her age. 
When she was only ten, Grace, her half sister, 
had married, and she had no brothers or sisters 
of her own. She was her mother’s constant 
companion, and the only society she savAvas 
composed of people much older than herself, 
whose conversation was principally confined 
to the proceedings of the Friends. For some 
years past a great revolution in their ideas had 
set in, causing much division among them. 
The younger members were beginning to 
object strongly to the peculiar dress and mode 
of speech ; and while they fondly approved of 
the faith in which they had been nurtured, 
they made a stand against being so entirely 
shut out from amusements in which they con- 
sidered they might join without harm to them- 
selves, or scandal to the profession they made. 

Dorothy’s father had seen with pain his 
eldest daughter and her husband become 
leaders in the new school. This made him 
doubly anxious that Dorothy should unite 
herself to a man who had been brought up 
like herself to hold firmly to every principle 
of the Society of Friends, and look with dis- 
pleasure upon any innovation. And all these 
good qualities he found in Josiah Crewdson, 
the son of an old friend of his. For many years 
an alliance between the young people had 
been the sincere desire of the two fathers. 
Old Stephen Crewdson had died about two 
summers before, but not until he had made 
known his wishes to his son, and counselled 
him to carry them out. A few months back 
Nathaniel had, with Josiah’s knowledge, 
spoken to Dorothy, and she had promised him 
that if it were possible she would not place 
any obstacle to the fulfilment of his desire. 
She had not seen Josiah since she was a child; 
but she had heard a great deal about him, so 
perhaps she should like him. Of course, as 
lather wished it, she would try, and then, ex- 
cept when some special event, such as his 
forthcoming visit, called it up, the thing almost 
seemed to die out of her memory. 

Her mother was the only person who raised 
any objection. She had recently seen Josiah 
at York, and it did not seem to her that he 
possessed many qualities to win a young girl’s 
heart — particularly such a girl as Dorothy, 
who, in spite of all the repression of her 


9 


/ DOROTHY FOX. 


education, possessed an extra share ideal- 
ism and romance, mixed with much strength 
of will and purpose. Patience knew her 
daughter’s character well enough to feel that 
love was a necessity to its perfection. Then, 
again, she could not help saying to herself, 
“ Surely such a face might win any heart.” 

Few persons who casually met the young 
Quaker passed her without turning again to 
look at her sweet beauty ; but to those who 
could watch her, look into her earnest brown 
eyes, shaded by their long dark lashes— to 
those who loved her and whom she loved, 
Dorothy’s face was the dearest?, most win- 
ning face in all the world. She \\4s full of 
gaiety, admiring all that was beautiful, and 
delighting in sweet sounds and gay colours, 
in which she longed to deck herself. Her 
life hitherto had been, though happy and 
contented, quiet to excess. Since she had 
stayed a few days at Fryston with her sister, 
she had felt much more curiosity about the 
world beyond her own home. She was not 
quite certain she felt so thankful, as her father 
daily expressed himself, that the world was 
unknown to him and his family. She would 
have liked rather to see a little more of it ; 
but perhaps all this was wrong. So she 
checked the natural desire one minute only 
to renew her wandering into some fresh sub- 
ject the next, until she was lost in dreams 
of a world fashioned after her own young 
imagination — a sweet garden of Eden all 
roses and rose-coloured. 

CHAPTER II. “LIKE THE PRINCE AND 

PRINCESS IN THE FAIRY TALES.” 

As Captain Verschoyle walked through 
the busy streets, after leaving Nathani^ 
Fox’s shop, .he felt that though the c* 
summer air fanned his hot head, it sent a 
shiver through the rest of his body. Still he 
thought it would be better to walk for a little 
distance than to ride w at once; so he pro- 
ceeded at a tolerably brisk pace until he 
came to the little toll-gate, from which he 
could see the hospital, though how to get to 
it did not exactly occur to him. 

“Why, sir!” replied the toll-man, in an- 
swer to his inquiry, “ you’ve come a brave 
bit out of your way. You should have gone 
up Eldad-hill, and round by No-place ; but 
there— you. leg ain’t in a sling, though your 
arm may be, so ten minutes one way or 
t’other won’t make much odds. You go 
straight on till you come to a little gate, and 
then through the path, on to the posts, 
through they, and up a lane, past the Rec- 
tory, and up another lane, and there you be 


with the gates right before you. You can’t 
miss it, if you mind what I’ve told you.” 

The consequence of this direction was that 
the young man, did not find the gates right 
before him until the heavy dews were falling 
thick and wetting the grass he was obliged to 
walk through. The old doctor shook his head 
at him, and advised him to get off to bed as 
soon as possible. Captain Verschoyle stoutly 
held to it that he should be all right by the 
morning, and able to go out the next day — 
when it had been decided he should have 
his discharge. Yet the next discharging day 
to that went by and found him still an inmate 
of the hospital suffering from another feverish 
attack, which, though slight, had kept him 
from joining his mother and sister at Exeter, 
and going with them to Shilston Hall, as he 
had previously arranged to do. This fresh 
illness had upset all his plans, and now it 
would be quite another week before he cbuld 
leave the hospital. No wonder, then, he 
was sitting rather ruefully when his man 
brought him this letter : — 

“My dear Charlie, 

“It is some days since we heard from you, 
and I cannot help thinking you are worse than you 
say. You do not kn§w how I long to see you, nor 
how disappointed I was to find you were not at 
Exeter to meet us. As we have old Marshall with 
us, I have begged mamma to let her go with me to 
see you, and she has consented. So I am coming, 
and you may expect me to-morrow. You dear old 
thing ! I hope you are not really worse, and that 
you will be gUd to see your loving sister, 

“ Audrey.” 

“Bless her heart!” exclaimed Captain 
Vehschoyle; “glad to see her, I should 
thirix I should be, for I began to feel as if 
my coming home couldn’t make much differ- 
ence to any one.” 

“ Here, Hallett !” to his servant, “ I ex- 
pect a lady to see me ; go down to the gates 
and watch for a cab driving up, and when 
they ask for me, tell Miss Verschoyle you are 
my servant waiting to show her the way to my 
quarters ; but first, just see all straight here.” 

“Yes, sir;” and the man left, and his 
master drew a chair to the window where he 
might be able to catch a momentary glimpse 
of his visitors before they entered the build- 
ing. Everything looked very much brighter 
than it had done an hour before. It was so 
pleasant to know somebody was coming who 
would make him feel he was at home again. 
Why, except that good motherly shopkeeper 
and her pretty daughter, no woman had 
spoken to him since his return ; and then he 
smiled to himself to think how, through the 
dreams resulting from the drugged sleep and 


IO 


DOROTHY FOX. 


subsequent wanderings of the fever, he had 
been haunted by the quaint grey figure. “ I 
suppose,” he thought, “the brain is acted 
upon by its last vivid impression. Well ! 
I’m glad mine was such a pleasant one, for 
the child was very pretty, — not a bit like the 
mother. Past two o’clock. I hope nothing 
has prevented Audrey coming, I should be 
so disappointed.” But before he had time 
for more reflection he heard a rustle, a sound 
of voices, the door was thrown open, and his 
sister had her arms round his neck. 

“Oh, how good it is to feel you are safe 
back once more ! ” she exclaimed after a few 
moments ; then giving him another great 
hug, “ I did not know I loved you so much, 
Charlie, unlil I thought we might never meet 
again. Now, let me have a good look at 
you- Well, you are thin and pale, of course, 
but ;VOu are just as good-looking as ever.” 

Captain Verschoyle laughed. “You are 
just the same, Audrey, thinking of good looks 
at once. I verily believe if I was going to 
execution you would be anxious that my per- 
sonal appearance should be all you desire.” 

“ Of course I should. Why, what have we 
to trade upon but our family and good looks? 
And now tell me about my own appearance : 
I'm dying to hear. I have not fallen oft'?” 

“You peacock!” exclaimed her brother, 
“you know you are as handsome as ever. 
How is it you are not married ?” 

“Ah, the universal question !” she replied. 
“ Because— because — because I am not ; but 
don't look so grave, for I am seriously think- 
ing of it, and am busy weaving a snare into 
which my bird will most certainly fall. Why 
I am eight-and-twenty, Charles, — an awful 
age for a spinster. You cannot imagine my 
feelings every time I see Aunt Spencer, and 
hear her invariable, ‘ Audrey, my dear, excuse 
my saying it, but it’s quite time you were 
married.’ And then people are beginning to 
appeal to my memory in the most incon- 
venient manner, saying, ‘ You must remember 
that, Miss Verschoyle ; it isn’t more than 
ten years ago since it happened.’ Why do 
we ever grow old, Charlie ? It does not 
matter for men, but for women, oh dear, 
dear! However, mamma has a splendid 
scheme on hand, — a millionaire for me, and 
an heiress for you; and I’m sure you’ll succeed, 
for nothing wins a woman’s heart like a 
warrior bold, pale and wounded.” 

. “ Well, I’m glad you have settled my fate 
lor me,” said Captain Verschoyle, “for I’m 
thoroughly home-sick, and want to settle 
down. So as long as I have no trouble in 
the matter, I’m prepared to go in and win ; 


that is, if she’s anything decent, hasn’t a 
hump, or a squint, and isn’t forty.” 

“ Oh no ! she’s very nice,” replied Audrey 
“and is young and foolish. The latter may 
be a recommendation. And now to tell you 
all about mamma. First and foremost, she 
sent you her dearest love and a kiss, then 
she desired you would have camphor put 
among your clothes for fear of bringing home 
infection ; next, that nothing but her wretched 
health and weak nerves prevented her com- 
ing to see you ; and lastly, she begs you will 
have your hair cut at once, dr it may tall off 
and leave you prematurely bald.” 

Captain Verschoyle smiled, saying, “Ah, I 
see you go on as usual ! How is the old lady ?” 

“ Why a great deal better than she would 
be if she heard her beloved son inquire 
after her by that opprobrious title. Yes, we 
squabble, and I am rude, and penitent, just 
as I used to be, and get caressed and ap- 
pealed to in public and scolded and snubbed 
in private. But it really is more my fault 
than hers. I did not want to go to Shilston 
Hall, but to come on here to you. How- 
ever, mamma said she could not afford it, 
though it would not have cost much. I detest 
Shilston, and the Brocklehursts are such a 
set — every one of them possessed of an 
entire and peculiar meanness, and each try- 
ing for the old lady’s money by setting her 
against the rest of the competitors. One of 
the most powerful arguments in my favour 
was, that I had had a tilt with her, and I told 
mamma a day’s absence was the only chance 
I had left. That reminds me I must call Mar- 
shall in and decide about the train to return by.” 

“ Return,” echoed Captain Verschoyle. 
“Why must you go back? I cannot get 
away from here for four days, and if we 
could spend them together it would be quite 
a holiday; and this is such a pretty place. 
Hallett could get* lodgings for you and Mar- 
shall close by, and I can get out all day. What 
do you say? Woukbyou mind staying?” 

“ Mind it !” said Audrey, “ why I should like 
it of all things, but how can we manage it? 
Shall we call Marshall in and hear her ideas ? 
I left her in the next room.” So she opened 
the door and admitted Marshall, a small thin 
woman, who had been Audrey’s maid since 
she was a child, and therefore knew Captain 
Verschoyle well enough to shake his hand 
and heartily hope he was gaining strength. 
After the due inquiries had been made, Audrey 
told her the plan they had in view. 

“ Now, Miss M., give me the benefit of 
your wise head, and tell me what’s the best 
thing to do.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


ii 


“ Well, Mks, what have you made up your 
mind to do ?” said Marshall. 

“ Why, to stay, of course,” replied her 
mistress, “ only mamma is sure to object, you 
know ; so how can we manage?” 

“Well, Miss, thinking if Captain Charles 
was very ill you might remain, I’m prepared 
with your bag for one night ; after that I sup- 
pose I must go back to Shilston for some 
more things, though I know her ladyship will 
be terribly put out with me.” 

“ I have it,” exclaimed Captain Verschoyle. 
“ I will send Hallett off by the next train, 
telling mamma I won’t let you go, and that 


she must let you stay, or I shall never get 
well ; that I will take care of you, see you are 
comfortably lodged, and pay all the expenses.” 

This plan meeting with universal approba- 
tion, Hallett was called to receive his orders ; 
and during the two hours he had to spare 
before starting he was desired to take Mrs. 
Marshall and seek lodgings in the village 
close by. Captain Verschoyle went to see 
what arrangements he could make for giving 
them some refreshments, and Audrey was 
left to herself. 

She took a survey of the room, opened a 
book or two lying on the table', and then 



Page 14- 


stood at the window looking at the picturesque 
Dutch sort of view of the neighbouring town. 
Was it because in this scantily furnished 
room there was nothing to arrest attention, 
that Audrey Verschoyle looked such a strik- 
ing object? No. Had you seen her sur- 
rounded by luxury and magnificence, it would 
have been the same. She possessed a some- 
thing that, no matter where she was or in 
what company, you singled her out, and 
wondered who she could be. Not that she 
was particularly beautiful. Indeed, many 
laughed when they heard her good looks 


brought forward as a reason for the atten- 
tion she received, notwithstanding her won- 
derful eyes, and tall, graceful figure. After 
you had talked to her, however, you were 
generally fascinated. She seemed to speak 
and move exactly as you desired — to satisfy 
your admiration, and make you constantly 
think she was the most elegant woman you 
had ever seen. But one thing struck every one : 
that she must always have been a woman, 
never a girl with thoughtless winning ways, 
never a child with glee ul boisterous mirth. 
Yes, Audrey was always a thorough-bred, 


12 


DOROTHY FOX. 


self-possessed woman, who studied every art 
by which she could make herself fascinating, 
who valued without overrating each attrac- 
tion she commanded, and who could give her 
rivals all credit for the charms they possessed, 
inasmuch as she exactly estimated her own 
power to compete with them. Her sprightly 
wit made her a delightful companion, and 
after she had been amusing you through a 
long conversation, her tact would cause you 
to leave feeling that she had been equally 
interested and was as sorry to part from you 
as you were to go from her. Notwithstand- 
ing all this, many a man and woman who had 
been perfectly fascinated by Audrey Verschoyle 
sighed when she left them — sighed to think 
what a sacrifice of happiness these perfec- 
tions had cost her — felt sure that times often 
came when she wearily longed for the great 
happiness without which all women’s lives 
miret be crownless — some one to love. Not 
to love her alone, for many a heart had been 
offered to her, but some one to whose love 
her own heart could respond. She used to 
say, “ Love, you know, is a luxury for the 
rich and poor only ; we who stand on middle 
ground must be content to live without it.” 
And apparently she had contrived to live 
without it happily enough. She had had 
her disappointments — elder sons who had 
seemed secured had suddenly seceded to 
some country hoyden or beauty fresh from the 
school-room ; rich bachelors who, on the 
very eve of triumph, had taken fright and flight 
and so kept their liberty ; wealthy old men 
whom death had snatched from their would- 
be bride. Still Audrey carried all off with a 
high hand, openly expressing her disappoint- 
ment and chargin, always laughingly saying. 
“ People should marry for what they value 
most, and I value nothing so much as fine 
houses, and carriages, and clothes, money 
and position; and as fate has ordained that 
these good things shall not be my portion 
during my single state, why I must try and 
get them by my own exertions, and I shall 
appreciate them so thoroughly that I am 
certain to make an excellent wife to whoever 
is good enough to bestow any or all upon me.” 

Perhaps there was some excuse for Miss 
Verschoyle’s love of money, for ever since 
she could remember, it had been the thing 
lamented and longed for at home. Colonel 
Verschoyle was a younger son of a very good 
family. He had been brought up in luxury, 
so that extravagance was habit to him. He 
spent every farthing of his rather liberal 
allowance on himself. He went into the 
best society, mixed with people who either 


had large incomes, or lived as if they had 
them, went wherever it was the fashion to go, 
did whatever it was the fashion t q do, and 
one season, it being the fashion to fall in love, 
fell in love with Lady Laura Granville. He 
proposed to her and was accepted. Lady 
Laura had always been allowed to have her 
own way, and she would not be ruled in the 
choice of a husband. She had no idea of the 
value of money, and as she saw Colonel 
Verschoyle could supply all his own wants, 
she thought he would be able to give her all 
she had been accustomed to. Her father the 
more readily yielded to her wishes, from the 
fact that a failure on the turf had ruined him 
and made it highly desirable that he should 
speedily break up his establishment and 
retire abroad. After their marriage, notwith- 
standing they both talked ^ great deal of the 
economy they intended practising, each felt 
it very hard to make any the least personal 
sacrifice. Colonel Verschoyle did not find 
domestic happiness a sufficient compensation 
for the horses he had to give up, or the club 
he could no longer afford to belong to ; and 
Lady Laura, in her turn, yawned and felt 
weary at the end of a quiet tete-a-tete evening, 
on which she had been obliged to send a 
refusal to some dinner party or ball, because 
another new dress could not be^ afforded. As 
time went on the birth of a son and daughter 
increased their expenses ; and the struggle 
to compete and keep up an appearance due 
to the set in which they mixed became more 
apparent and irksome, leading to constant 
bickerings between the husband and wife. 
Charles had seen little of this, being at 
school during his boyhood, and then going 
at once into the army ; but Audrey had felt it 
bitterly, had seen with the keenness of a 
child’s intuitive sense of fairness how selfish 
her father often was, and how deceitful her 
mother proved to be. Regarding the want 
of money as the cause of all this evil, she 
determined at a very early age, that when 
she entered into the world, wealth should be 
her chief object. 

“ I have mamma’s experience before me,” 
she used to say ; “ hers was a love-match, 
and it proves that love without money cannot 
give happiness ; but money without love, 
though it may not give happiness, can give 
many things which enable you to bear your 
life very contentedly.” 

Colonel Verschoyle had been dead ten 
years, and Lady Laura’s income as a widow 
was tolerably good, or would have been, had 
she been contented to live quietly without 
straining to give the world an impression that 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*3 


she possessed double the sum she had. The 
fact that Audrey was still unmarried was a 
sore disappointment to her mother, and every 
year her mortification increased. She de- 
tested girls who had the slightest pretensions 
to beauty, and if she could insidiously depre- 
ciate any one whom she regarded as her 
daughter’s rival, she never missed an oppor- 
tunity of doing so. This weakness in turn 
annoyed and amused Audrey, who with all 
her failings had not a trace of meanness. She 
delighted in a thrust-and-parry encounter with 
any girl whose object in life she considered 
to be the same as her own ; and as long as 
they were together, often tipped her arrows 
with a little covert lady-like venom. But let 
them part, and her rival was quite safe from 
Audrey ; and woe betide the man who, pre- 
suming on the too frequent foible of a woman, 
presented her with a dish of flattery at her 
adversary’s expense, or, while paying her a 
string of compliments, depreciated the absent 
one’s recognised advantages. 

Lady Laura was as selfish with her chil- 
dren as she had been with her husband. 
Audrey might positively refuse to go some- 
where, or to do something on which Lady 
Laura had set her heart, but, as she said, 
“she had always in the end to give in 
to mamma ; ” for when argument and threats 
failed, Lady Laura had her delicate health 
and shattered nerves to fall back upon; 
and they were the result, according to her- 
self, of a life devoted to her ungrateful 
daughter. Her great love was centred in 
Charles ; she seemed to look upon the two 
from perfectly distinct points. Her son had 
been given her to love; her daughter had 
been given her to marry. True, even her 
love for him could not overcome her rooted 
dread of infection : gladly would she have 
gone to him, but the very name of hospital 
conjured up horrid visions of fever and small- 
pox ; and though she had, after much plead- 
ing and entreaty, allowed Audrey to go to 
see her brother, she was terrified she might 
catch some of those horrid complaints during 
her visit; and, as she put it, “a serious 
illness at Audrey’s age would blight her pros- 
pects for ever, ruin her complexion and her 
hair, and make her look quite plain and old ; 
and then, perhaps, she’d become a district 
visitor or a sister of mercy, for there was no 
knowing what peculiar things girls would con- 
sider their vocation when all their good looks 
had vanished.” So she began to heartily 
regret she had let Audrey go, and to half 
wish she had gone herself and seen after her 
dear boy. Miss Brockehurst comforted her 


by saying that Audrey had considerably 
raised herself in her opinion, and if she con- 
sidered it right to stay with her brother in- 
stead of returning for the bazaar and flower- 
show, she would see that she was not a loser 
in the end. This declaration from a lady 
who, as compensation for all the caprices and 
disagreeable humours she saw fit to inflict on 
her relations, had announced her intention 
of leaving fifty thousand pounds to the one 
who treated her best, filled Lady Laura with 
joy. In her imagination Audrey was already 
an heiress, spending her income under her 
mother’s sole direction and management. 
Lady Laura was thus in a frame of mind that 
made Hallett’s task a very easy one. He 
accordingly left under the impression that 
Marshall was the most wrong-sighted and 
prejudiced of her sex, and that “ it’s no good 
trying to please women, for anybody who’d 
call master’s mother a dragon of a temper — 
well ! he wished they’d had a taste of two or 
three of the tempers he had had to put up 
with in his day.” 

Before an hour had elapsed Captain Vers- 
choyle had joined his sister, and Marshall 
had returned, to announce that they had 
found some rooms which would suit them in 
Paradise Row, close by ; and if they liked, 
that the landlady would see about getting 
them a substantial tea at once. 

“ Oh ! that would be much nicer, Charles, 
than having anything here ; and as it will be 
quite early, we can take a stroll or drive 
together after.” 

Captain Verschoyle being no longer under 
strict surveillance as an invalid, soon made 
the necessary arrangements for going out. 
Hallett received his orders and departed for 
Shilston, laden with messages and instruc- 
tions from Marshall, and two notes from his 
master, one to Lady Laura and the other to her 
hostess and cousin Miss Brockehurst. Marshall 
hurried away to give all necessary instructions 
about the tea, and the brother and sister 
leisurely followed, pleasantly chatting together. 

Audrey laughed incredulously at her 
brother’s desire for home and quiet. “ Why, 
my dear Charlie, your state is really a most 
dangerous one. It would take very little to 
make you fall romantically in love with some 
charming creature (who of course would not 
have a penny), and to imagine you could 
spend the rest of your life lapped in the 
delights of domestic felicity and the luxuries 
which eight hundred pounds a-year would give 
you. Mamma’s heiress will prove an interposi- 
tion of Providence — she is just the girl for you 
to meet in a country house in your present 


DOROTHY FOX. 


'4 


frame of mind — she is so pale and fragile look- 
ing. Then, from having had every other want 
supplied, love is sure to be the one wish of 
her life; she will adore you, and you will grace- 
fully consent to be worshipped ; she will beg 
you to accept her fortune, calling it a cipher 
compared with the treasure you have given 
her in your love. And you will accept her 
fifty thousand pounds, and while pressing her 
to your heart, lament she is not penniless that 
you might show her your disinterested love is 
for herself alone.” 

“ Most dramatically drawn,” laughed Cap- 
tain Verschoyle, “and not altogether an 
unpleasing picture, for even now I should 
require little short of an angel to reconcile 
me to love in a cottage on a limited income ; 
so may your foreshadowings prove true, sister 
of mine. Oh ! here is Marshall. I suppose 
we have reached our destination.” 

They turned into the open gate, and fol- 
lowed Marshall into the house and up the 
stairs to an old-fashioned bow-windowed 
drawing-room, the ornaments of which seemed 
collected from every quarter of the globe. 
There were dangerous weapons of savage 
life, dainty carvings and grotesque josses, 
curious shells, gaudy feather flowers, cases of 
stuffed tropical birds, and rare China bowls 
and vases — all contrasting oddly with the 
well-worn carpet and somewhat over sub- 
stantially made furniture. The table was set 
out for tea with whatever could be procured 
for an impromptu meal. Altogether the room 
looked quaint and homely, and quite different 
from anything Audrey had ever seen. 

“ I hope, Miss,” said the smiling, good- 
natured looking landlady, “you’ll try and 
make yourself comfortable, and ask for every- 
thing you want, and tell me all you don’t 
like, and then we shall soon know eaclt 
other’s ways.” 

“ Thank you,” said Audrey ; then throwing 
herself into a chair, she exclaimed, “ For four 
days, farewell to all my greatness ! I intend 
forgetting the world and everybody it contains 
but you, Charlie, and we’ll try and be like the 
prince and princess in the fairy tales, ‘as 
happy as the days are long.’” 

CHAPTER III. AT KING’S-HEART. 

In quiet lives simple occurrences become 
great events ; and so it was that Dorothy Fox 
dwelt more than most girls might have done 
on the adventure of the day before. Na- 
turally she desired to know if the handsome 
young soldier had quite recovered ; and this 
led to wondering where he lived, and whether 
she should ever see him again. Then the 


wounded arm spun a web entirely on its own 
account, telling its tale of Russians and 
Zouaves; echoing the names Alma, Inkerman, 
Sebastopol; names that recalled deeds, the 
fame of which could not be shut out even 
from the ears of the peace-loving Quaker. 
Notwithstanding all she had heard against 
fighting, a halo would throw itself over a 
wounded hero, and when she sat doAvn to 
write her diurnal letter to her mother, it 
seemed a task to give a plain unvarnished 
statement of such an interesting circumstance. 
She determined, therefore, to tell her only 
the facts that a young man had come into the 
shop, and had fainted, but that by Judith’s 
care he recovered, and, after resting, was able 
to walk home. The details she would give to 
her mother when she returned. And as the 
return was to be on the following day, Dorothy 
employed herself in scanning the flower-beds, 
re-arranging the pots in the various stands, and 
redusting the already speckless furniture. 

All was ready by the next evening, and six 
o’clock saw Dorothy standing in the garden, 
waiting to catch sound of the wheels which 
would tell her that old Rowe, with his white 
horse fly, was bringing the expected travellers 
slowly home. The sun had nearly lost its 
power, and twilight would soon gather slowly 
over the fair prospect Already the distant 
hills were preparing to enshroud themselves 
in their blue misty coverings. Everything 
seemed hushed and peaceful, and the harmony 
between the low, ivy-covered house, the trim 
garden with its yew hedge screening the view 
of the high road, and the young girl in her 
grey, old-world dress, was complete. You 
might have fancied you had gone back to the 
days succeeding those when the first Charles 
held his court at a house close by, and had 
come to this very place to visit its loyal owner, 
“ who, in memory of the spot on which the 
king had stood, planted a yew tree, which 
he cut in fashion of a heart, and to this day 
King’s-heart is the name the house goes by.” 

Wheels ! And this time, instead of going 
on, they come nearer and nearer, only stop- 
ping in front of the gate, which Dorothy 
quickly opens, feeling a desire to throw her 
arms round her mother’s neck and kiss her 
twenty times. But her father, she knows, 
would not approve of any such display of 
affection, so she stands quietly, with beaming 
eyes of love, waiting for them to descend. 
Then they exchange a quiet, sober, but warm 
greeting, and go into the house, quite ready 
to enjoy the substantial supper which Dorothy 
has provided for them. 

When supper is over, the conversation 


DOROTHY FOX. 


15 


flows more readi.y, although the two great 
points of interest — Elizabeth Spark’s wed- 
ding, and Josiah Crewdson’s visit — have to 
be deferred until Dorothy is alone with her 
mother. In the meantime she answers the 
questions relating to the household and the 
garden, tells them who she saw at meeting on 
First-day, and who gave the discourse ; and is 
in her turn informed of all that happened 
at Exeter during the stay her father and 
mother made there. Then they show her 
the presents they have brought home, and 
finding among them one for Judith, Dorothy 
runs off to look for her old nurse, who is 
waiting to see master and mistress, to give i 
an account of all the proceedings of the 
Plymouth establishment during their absence. 

Patience’s eyes followed her daughter’s re- 
treating figure, and turning to her husband, 
she said — 

“ I have seen no one to compare with our 
child in sweetness since we have been away. 

I hope I am not too greatly set upon her, 
Nathaniel.” 

“ No, Patience, no,” replied her husband, 
whose voice seemed always softer when he 
addressed his wife; “I believe thou hast 
towards her only the love of a fond mother — 
though,” he added, smiling, “ certainly one of 
thy greatest failings is letting thy love make 
thee somewhat blind to people’s shortcomings.” 1 

Patience gave an involuntary sigh, which, ' 
seeing her husband had noticed, she explained 
by saying, “ I feel such a shrinking when the 
thought that I may perhaps soon lose her 
comes across me.” 

“Thou must not call giving her to Josiah 
Crewdson losing her, Patience,” replied Na- 
thaniel, with a tinge of reproach in his look 
as well as in his voice. “ I only earnestly 
trust I may live to see her united to a man 
who, I believe, is worthy of her, and of being 
a champion in this cause of upholding our 
principles against those who, while they are 
Friends in name, are foes to the society they 
should defend and honour. I have more 
pleasure in looking forward to giving Dorothy 
to Josiah Crewdson, than I had to giving 
Grace to John Hanbury.” 

“Dear Grace!” said Patience: “I wish 
that she and John saw things more as thou 
would have them do ; but I feel sure Grace 
never allows that in which her conscience 
condemns her.” 

“ Ah ! the devil can make a conscience 
very elastic, Patience. Once let him get the 
smallest entrance into the heart, and he will 
soon fill it and the mind with a love of his 
snares and besetments.” 


“ I hope Dorothy may like Josiah,” said 
Patience, pursuing the subject which was 
uppermost in her mind. 

“ Of course, she will like him,” returned 
Nathaniel, growing impatient. “Why should 
she not? An excellent young man, whom 
we have all known from his childhood. I 
trust that my daughter has been too well 
brought up not to be greatly guided in her 
choice of a husband by the knowledge that 
he has the approbation of her father.” Then 
seeing a troubled expression on Patience’s 
face, he patted her hand, saying, “ Be very 
sure, love will come, wife, love will come.” 

“ I trust so, for without it marriage must 
be a dreary bondage of mind and body. Two 
people may honour, obey, and respect each 
other, but if love is not present to make them 
one — oh ! husband can you not say, ‘ I pity 
them.’ ” 

Before Nathaniel could reply, Dorothy re- 
turned, asking if Judith might come in and 
see them. Permission being given, the old 
servant was soon interesting them in accounts 
of the orders Mark had taken, and how 
many times he had been away to Tavistock, 
Totnes, and other places. 

After this Nathaniel went out to speak to 
the gardener, and then Judith entered upon 
gossip of a more domestic character, until, 
having exhausted her stock, she suddenly 
exclaimed, “ Did ye tell the mistress about 
the young soldier, dear, and his fainting off 
dead in the shop, just as luck would have it, 
when I’d run out to tell Mary Dawe about 
Friday’s cleaning; such a woman as she is 
with her tongue, which once set clacking, and 
I’d like to see the one who’d get in a word on 
the blade of a knife. However, I was soon 
back, or I don’t know what the poor child 
would have done.” 

“ Ah ! thou did mention something of the 
sort, Dorothy, but how did it happen, and 
what brought him to the shop?” 

Here upon Judith and Dorothy related 
the whole circumstance. “ And, mother,” said 
Dorothy, “Judith is quite offended with him 
because he took her for thee, and when he 
left desired his thanks and his card to be 
given to her.” 

“Hush, now!” exclaimed Judith; “it is too 
bad to bring that up against him. The truth 
is, his poor head was so dazed he couldn’t 
tell cockles from corn.” 

“ I almost wish thou hadst heard where he 
lived,” remarked Patience, “that Mark might 
have inquired whether he reached home in 
safety. These sudden attacks of faintness 
are very alarming. What was his name ?” 


1 6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


“ Captain Charles Egerton Verschoyle was 
on the card,” answered Dorothy. 

“ Oh ! then he was not a working man,” 
replied her mother. 

“Working man !” echoed Judith, “indeed 
he had the bearing of a lord, and the step of 
a drum-major as he walked down the street. 
’Twas his looks made me wonder what I’d 
best do with him.” 

“ I am glad thou let thy kind heart decide 
for thee, Judith,” said her mistress ; “ the 
day must never come when any one, gentle 
or simple, in want or need, turns from Na- 
thaniel Fox’s door. Remember the spirit of 
true charity has dwelt in that house for many 
generations. But here comes thy father. It 
is time for reading, so call Lydia and Anne, 
and get the books, Dorothy.” 

The maids came in, and the family, after 
sitting silent for a short time, listened atten- 
tively while Nathaniel Fox read the evening 
portion to them. To have merely looked in 
upon such a scene would have sent a peaceful 
feeling over a troubled, world-weary life. 

Although it was not quite dark the lamp 
was lighted and placed before the reader, 
thus making him the most striking object, 
and throwing out his face and figure. Na- 
thaniel Fox was a tall well-made man of 
nearly sixty years. His face was grave and 
almost stern in its expression. His disposi- 
tion was naturally genial and cheerful, and he 
enjoyed a joke, or quick repartee, more than 
he would have cared to own. His family 
had belonged to the Society of Friends for 
many generations. His father had com- , 
menced life as a woollen-draper, and by his I 
frugal habits and patient industry had so in- 1 
creased his business that he amassed a con- 
siderable fortune, which was inherited by his 
only son. Nathaniel had been sent to York 
school and kept there until he was fifteen, at 
which age he was considered to be duly edu- 1 
cated and ready to learn the business. He 
never left home, settled early in life, and suc- 
ceeded to a larger income than, with his 
quiet habits, he had any means or desire of 
spending. As time rolled on,* his little pecu- 
liarities naturally became enlarged, his opinion 
that his own views were right became con- 
firmed, and his toleration to those who differed 
from him got narrowed. Of the world he 
was literally ignorant, although by his warn- 
ings and exhortations against its snares and 
follies one might have fancied he had run the 
gauntlet of every temptation. So it was that 
this simple pure-minded man, to whom the 
truth was a law he never knowingly broke, 
took the most one-sided view of things which. 


if he could have seen them in their true 
light, he would have upheld and enjoyed. 
No rigid fanatic ever stood by a dictum 
more staunchly than did Nathaniel Fox advo- 
cate every principle enjoined by the Society 
of Friends. The diminishing of the height 
of his collar, or the narrowing of the brim of 
his hat by one fraction of an inch would have 
been considered, by this worthy man, a grave 
offence. He never seemed to consider that 
though people might in most cases indulge in 
“ plainness of speech and behaviour,” with- 
out much personal inconvenience, plainness 
of dress entailed great trouble and expense. 
If Nathaniel wanted a hat or coat, he could 
not obtain such articles to his satisfaction in 
Plymouth ; he had to apply to some maker 
for the brotherhood residing in Exeter or 
London. A new bonnet for Patience cost 
more trouble to obtain than any lady of 
fashion went through to secure the newest 
style from Paris. Still nothing would have 
induced Nathaniel to adopt any other dress 
than that which he had been brought up to 
consider as the only proper one for a consis- 
tent Friend. Certainly he had so far departed 
from the practice of his forefathers as not to 
insist upon mounting a cocked hat with the 
brim fastened up to the crown with cord ; 
neither did he consider it incumbent upon 
him to confine himself entirely to drab. But 
his neck was ever enveloped in the whitest of 
cravats, tied with exquisite neatness, and his 
drab breeches and gaiters as well as his black 
swallow-tailed straight-collared coat were made 
of the finest West of England cloth. 

Nathaniel had been married twice, his 
first wife having died soon after the birth of 
their daughter Grace, who, having mixed 
greatly with her mother’s family, had formed 
opinions and ideas which differed con- 
siderably from those held by her father. 

Patience, his second wife, was the daughter 
of a wealthy tea-merchant of York. Her 
opinions and education had been more liberal 
than those of her husband, over whom she 
influenced a more decided sway than she 
ever named or he ever knew. They were 
very opposite in character and disposition, 
but their love to each other was devoted and 
unmistakable. From her mother, Dorothy 
inherited her fair face and delicate features. 
Patience had been a beauty, and those who 
knew her, thought she had lost but little of its 
charm. She was the friend of all around her, 
rejoicing in their happiness and prosperity, 
comforting them in sorrow and adversity, 
and giving to them in her own life a perfect 
example of each womanly grace and virtue. 


DOROTHY FOX. 


l 7 



JP-AJ&T XI. 


CHAPTER IV. — A REUNION. 

HE four 
days in Ply- 
mouth had 
slipped 
quickly 
away. To- 
morrow the 
brother and 
sister were 
to return to 
S h i 1 s t o n 
Hal land 
join Lady 
Laura, who 
was anxi- 
ously ex- 
pecting her 
son. This 
was there- 
f o r e Au- 
drey’s last 
day of freedom. They had made the most 


of the time, and it had passed away so 
speedily and happily, and left so many plea- 
sant memories, that Audrey declared that 
if she could marry for love she would spend 
her honeymoon in Plymouth. Not that they 
had done much sight-seeing in a place where 
the lover of fair nature has but one com- 
plaint, an embarras de richesses. Captain 
Verschoyle, in after days, often spoke to her 
of that week at Plymouth, where she was as 
gay as a happy girl, and as artless and naive 
as a thoughtless child. She would talk to 
the old boatmen, and listen with delight to 
their yarns, and would enter into conver- 
sation with any man, woman, or child who 
chanced to come in her way, and be as 
triumphantly pleased with the evident ad- 
miration she excited in some rough old salt 
or military pensioner, as if they had been 
eligible partis , with rank and wealth to lay at 
the feet of their charmer. 

“ Audrey,” said Charles to her after one of 
these happy excursions, u I have often heard 



2 


IS 


DOROTHY FOX. 


that you were charming, but if people only 
saw you just now, they would say you were 
irresistible.” 

Whereupon she made him a sweeping 
curtsey, declaring that she believed it, for it 
was the first compliment he had ever paid 
ner in his life. “ But,” she went on, “ I have 
often thought that I might have been really 
nice, if I had not been brought up to show 
the right side, and feel the wrong side, of 
everything. The last few days have made me 
rather inclined to envy those whom ambition 
does not tempt to any other than a simple life 
of domestic contentment. It must be very 
pleasant to feel you have a companion for 
your whole life, one whom you love so well 
that you are truly content to take and be 
taken ‘lor better and for worse.’ Ah, I see 
you are elevating your eyebrows, sir, and no 
wonder, when you are listening to such 
treason from the lips of your mentor. But 
pray don’t inform against me. 1 promise to 
leave all my romance behind me here. And 
now, how shall we employ this last day?” 

“ I thought we should drive round Ply- 
mouth, and then I could make the inquiries 
I want to make at the Custom-house. I am 
rather anxious about those boxes ; they are 
filled with curiosities and relics that I set 
much value upon.” 

Accordingly they set off, and soon found 
themselves going over the bridge and through 
the toll-gate, whose keeper had given Captain 
Verschoyle his round-about direction. The 
sight of the man reminded him of that 
evening’s adventure, and he began to relate 
the circumstances to his sister. Audrey was 
quite interested in his description of the 
bright-looking, motherly shopkeeper, and 
her daughter, and asked him to give her a 
minute detail of all that happened. 

“And the girl was very pretty?” said 
she, answering her brother with a ques- 
tion. 

“Well,” replied Captain Verschoyle, “I 
hardly know ; her prim quaintness struck me 
so much more than anything else. Her tout 
etistmbie certainly made a charming picture, 
but how much was due to her good looks I 
really cannot say. You know she was totally 
unlike anything I ever saw before.” 

“Howl should like to see her !” exclaimed 
Audrey. “ Could you not call, and say you 
were much better, and felt you could not 
leave Plymouth without again thanking them 
lor their kindness ? ” 

“ Oh, I don't know,” said her brother, 
“ it’s hardly worth while, and she might not 
strike you at all in the same way; minus 


crinoline and colours, you might think her 
dowdy and old-fashioned.” 

“No, I should not,” answered Audrey; 
“ and if I did it would make no difference. 
My curiosity would be satisfied, so do go, 
Charlie. I really think you should, for they 
were very good to you.” 

“Yes, they were indeed,” replied Captain 
Verschoyle. “Suppose I were to take a 
bunch of flowers to the girl. I saw some on the 
table, I remember ; and you being with me, 
it would seem all right. I want them to 
think that I have come to tha?ik them, not 
from any other motive.” 

Upon this the coachman was told to stop 
at any shop where he saw flowers for sale. 
They had not left the Union Road before 
Audrey had selected a rather large bouquet 
formed of roses and lilies. 

“ I wish we could have got something 
better,” said Captain Verschoyle. 

“Yes, I wish so too; but it will please 
them. Marshall would call it lovely — those 
sort of people always favour quantity rather 
than quality.” 

They had soon passed Si. Andrew’s Church 
and the Post-office, Audrey commenting on 
the smart shops and the gaily-dressed pedes- 
trians, and admiring the pretty smiling girls, 
with their dark eyes and bright fresh com- 
plexions. The old Guildhall came in sight, 
and opposite it the fat gilt lamb dangling 
over the name of Nathaniel Fox, “woollen 
draper and manufacturer.” Here they drew 
up and descended, and entering the shop, 
inquired if Mrs. Fox were at home. 

“ Yes,” replied Mark, thinking the question 
applied to her return from Exeter. 

“Could I see her?” said Captain Vers- 
choyle. 

“ And Miss Fox?” put in Audrey. 

“ They’re not here,” answered Mark ; 
“they’re at King’s-heart, where they keep 
house:” then seeing that Miss Verschoyle 
looked rather disappointed, he continued, 
“ But if thou came to see them thou wilt go on 
there surely, or they’ll be main disappointed. 
Now thou art on the road, ’tis but a step.” 

“Yes; let us go, Charles,” said Audrey ; 
and then seeing her brother hesitate, she ad- 
dressed Mark, asking him if it was far, and 
begging him to repeat the name of the place. 

“ Perhaps you would explain it to the 
coachman,” she continued, “for We are 
strangers here, and know nothing of the 
roads.” 

Mark’s explanation was very brief, for the 
man knew the house, and was soon driving 
up to it, Captain Verschoyle leeling very 


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DOROTHY FOX. 


21 


much inclined to turn back. But he 'was 
overruled by Audrey’s curiosity ; and as they 
had nothing else to do, and the country 
began to look very pretty, he soon felt more 
at ease. 

At the top of the lane they got out of the 
fly, the man telling them to walk on until 
they came to a white gate, where they could 
either ring or walk in. The high hedge and 
the trees formed such a complete screen 
from the road that it was impossible to catch 
a glimpse of the house ; and as they stood 
admiring the prospect Lydia answered their 
summons. She said Mrs. Fox was at home, 
and bade them follow her. Somehow, be- 
fore they had gone half way up the path, 
Captain Verschoyle heartily wished himself 
anywhere else. Audrey tried to whisper that 
they had certainly made a mistake, and they 
were both reflecting what they had better do, 
when Lydia opened a door, and announced 
Captain and Miss Verschoyle. 

The room into which they were shown 
was always called the sitting-room, though 
it answered to the drawing-room of upper 
middle-class families. It was prettily and 
lightly furnished, and bore about it evidence 
of being intended for home use, while the 
flowers arranged in different stands and vases 
spoke of refined taste and feminine influence. 
Patience was seated before a half-finished 
painting of a group of tall white lilies, giving 
Dorothy the benefit of her criticism, as 
the girl knelt at her side listening with 
delighted face to the praise her mother had 
to bestow. 

When the door opened there was a mo- 
mentary look of surprise on both their faces, 
and then Dorothy, coming forward with a 
perfectly natural but pretty shy manner, held 
out her hand to Captain Verschoyle, say- 
ing, “ I am so glad to see thee looking so 
well again.” 

Poor Charles ! I fear his first impulse 
was to turn round and soundly rate Audrey 
for allowing her curiosity to bring him into 
this dilemma. One glance at the occupants 
of the room told him the relationship in which 
they stood towards each other, and revealed 
the evident mistake he had made. He could 
not explain it now, and say that he had 
considered that homely-looking person the 
mother of this girl, who, among these sur- 
roundings, looked much more refined than 
he had in their first interview thought her. 

“ This is my mother,” continued Dorothy, 
as Patience advanced towards them. 

Captain Verschoyle was not naturally op- 
pressed with bashfulness or awkwardness, but 


on this occasion no youth raw from a remote 
country district could have felt more confused. 
Audrey was so much amused at the appearance 
he presented, as he stood there trying to stam- 
mer out something, the enormous nosegay all 
the while in his hand, that it required a violent 
effort on her part to keep from bursting into 
a fit of laughter. But she restrained herself, 
and came to the rescue by saying — 

“ Mrs. Fox, you will pardon this intrusion, 
I am sure. My brother and I felt your kind- 
ness to him was so great, that our gratitude 
would not permit us to leave Plymouth with- 
out thanking you for it.” 

“ I am very pleased to see thee,” said Pa- 
tience ; then, turning to Captain Verschoyle, 
she continued, “ The mistake thou made in 
taking Judith for Dorothy’s mother was a 
natural one, and Judith is so valued by us 
all, that I appreciate the intention which 
made thee come so far to thank her, quite as 
much as if thy visit had been meant for my- 
self.” 

Patience little knew how her unstudied 
speech, prompted entirely by the wish to set 
the young man at ease, raised her at once in 
Miss Verschoyle’s opinion. 

“ How well done ! ” she thought ; “ that 
woman has breeding in her, though she may 
be the daughter of a thousand shopkeepers.” 

Captain Verschoyle began to recover him- 
self, and by the time Dorothy had relieved 
him of his floral burden, saying, “ What 
beautiful lilies ! I was wishing I had some 
more this morning,” he had found his courage 
again ; and feeling the truth had best be 
told, he said that he had got them for her, 
thinking that she lived in the town, and would 
perhaps accept them, and excuse the poor- 
ness of his offering. They were soon per- 
fectly at home, Patience listening to an 
account of Captain Verschoyle’s subsequent 
illness, and Dorothy showing Audrey the 
flower painting she was engaged upon. Audrey 
thought she had never before seen anything 
so pretty as the child’s artless manner, so 
self-possessed and yet so simple. She readily 
assented to Dorothy’s proposal that they 
should go over the garden, and Captain Vers- 
choyle and Patience got up to follow them. 

“ But,” said Audrey, “ you will get a hat 
or bonnet first.” 

“ Oh, no ; I never do.” 

“ Why, you will spoil your complexion ; 
which would be a pity, for it is beautiful.” 

“ Is it?” answered Dorothy. 

Audrey laughed ; here certainly was a 
rara avis — a girl who was unconscious of the 
charms she possessed. Audrey wondered 


22 


DOROTHY FOX. 


whether she was the happier for it, and if her 
whole demeanour could be relied upon. She 
was the embodiment of happiness, and yet 
what capabilities of improvement she pos- 
sessed! If her hair were simply but fashion- 
ably arranged, and if she had an elegant 
white toilette, she would be the perfection of 
her style. And then Audrey mentally conjured 
up a reflection of her own figure clothed in 
grey, with the white net kerchief crossed over 
her bosom, and all her hair taken back from 
her face and fastened into a knot at the back 
of her head. 

“ I should look simply hideous,” she 
thought. “ What a providence I am not 
condemned to belong to the Quaker per- 
suasion ! ” 

“What art thou showing Audrey Vers- 
choyle, dearest ? ” said Patience ; then see- 
ing the surprised look on Audrey’s face, she 
added, “ Thou must not think me familiar in 
thus naming thee, but it is against our prin- 
ciples to give persons the title of Miss or 
Mr.” 

“ Familiar ! indeed no, Mrs. Fox ; I was 
just looking at this yew tree so curiously 
cut.” 

“Yes, they call it ‘ Charles’s heart,’ and 
say the poor man once stood by it in much 
sorrow. Dorothy will tell thee long histories 
of all he did during his stay at Widey, for he 
is her favourite hero of romance.” 

“ Hardly that, mother ; but I feel so sorry 
for him ; and so dost thou, too.” 

“ Yes,” answered Patience ; “ still I always 
blame him for want of truthfulness. He 
^relied, I fear, on ope of the world’s supports 
— cunning, a very broken reed to all who 
try its strength.” 

“Ah, but, Mrs. Fox,” said Audrey, “re- 
member he lived in an atmosphere where, as 
in the world of the present day, a little deceit 
is pardonable, and strict truth would be not 
only unpalatable, but unwholesome, inasmuch 
as it would cause you to disagree with every 
one.” 

“Thou dost not quite mean that,” re- 
plied Patience, “ or I should form a bad 
opinion of the world.” 

“And do you not think badly of us?” 
questioned Audrey, laughing. 

“ I hope «iot,” returned Patience. “ Of 
course, thou must know that in the quiet life 
I lead, many of the things I hear I must 
condemn ; but then it is the folly I censure, 
not individually those who enter into it. How 
could I presume to do that, when, were it 
not for a goodness that has placed me beyond 
those particular temptations, my weak human 


nature might be as powerless to resist as 
theirs whom I should be censuring?” 

“ Mrs. Fox,” said Captain Verschoyle, “you 
put a quiet life very pleasantly before us.” 

“ Do I?” she answered; “and yet I some- 
times hope that Dorothy may see more of 
the world than I have had an opportunity of 
seeing. I do not hold a choice made through 
ignorance so highly as I should hold one 
made after the person had in a measure 
tested the value of what was given up ; and 
just now a great agitation is working in the 
minds of Friends, whether it would not be 
expedient to give more freedom of action to 
members of the society. Many regard the 
movement with favour, while others cling to 
the customs of their fathers. My husband is 
one of those who deplore any innovation, so, 
of course, we carry out his views ; though I 
cannot say it would be against my conscience 
to do many things which I refrain from doing 
just because I know his conscience would 
condemn them. And now thou wilt come 
into the house and partake of some refresh- 
ment before starting?” 

Audrey hesitated. 

“ Oh, thou must come,” said Dorothy. 

“ I should like very much to do so,” an- 
swered Audrey, “did I not fear we were 
almost trespassing on your hospitality.” 

“ Do not fear that,” said Patience, smiling. 
“ Thou knows it is our custom only to say 
what we mean ; therefore thy staying will give 
us pleasure.” 

“ Then I am sure we will not deny our- 
selves such a pleasure,” added Captain Vers- 
choyle. 

And on this they all went back to the 
house to partake of tea and fruit and cake. 
They sat some time longer talking of paint- 
ings and flowers, and of many subjects on 
which Charles and Audrey seldom spoke. 
Captain Verschoyle gave them some descrip- 
tions of the Crimea — of the sufferings and 
bravery of the men, and of the fortitude with 
which some had heard their death-warrant, 
when life would have given them the fame to 
gain which they had risked all they held dear. 
He spoke more particularly of one of his own 
especial friends, and of the influence his life 
and death had had upon his men. Patience at 
length confessed to herself that she felt greatly 
drawn towards him, and thought how proud 
his mother must be of such a son ; for Charles 
Verschoyle had that gentle suavity of manner 
which, while it attracts all, particularly appeals 
to women who feel that their youth no longer 
claims the attention and thoughtfulness due 
to their sex. 


DOROTHY FOX. 


23 


They were all reluctant to say good-bye ; 
and, standing together at the white gate, any 
one would have been surprised to hear that 
they were friends of only a few hours’ standing. 

“ Farewell,” said Patience to Audrey. “ I 
shall often think of thee.” 

“ And I of you,” she answered. “ The 
thought will do me good — as you yourself 
would do could I see more of you.” Then 
turning to Dorothy, and meeting her loving, 
earnest eyes, Audrey, giving way to a most 
unusual impulse, took the sweet face in both 


her hands, and kissed her on both cheeks. 
Captain Verschoyle meanwhile, bade a linger- 
ing adieu 10 Patience. 

“ Farewell,” she said; “I am glad we 
have met, should it never be our lot to meet 
again. In all thy warfare, may thou be pro- 
tected.” 

“ Thank you heartily : but I will not think 
this is to be our only meeting. Should I ever 
| come to Plymouth again, you will, I know, 
give me permission to call and see you. 
I Good-bye, Miss Fox, I have not expressed 



Page 24. 


half my gratitude to you for your charitable 
kindness.” 

One more look round to see the mother 
and daughter, as they stood together, the de- 
clining rays of the sun lingering about the 
pathway where they stood, and lovingly resting 
on them, and Audrey and Charles Verschoyle 
turned their faces towards Plymouth. The 
driver (who had been well cared for) touched 
up his horse, and they were soon well on the 
road again. 

“Charles,” said Audrey, breaking the silence, 
“ I never in my life-time felt so old and world- 
won^ nor felt such a desire to be different 


! from what I am. Now I know what happi- 
ness means ! Something born of a great 
heart — too pure, too truthful, too charitable 
to see aught but the best of people, and 
which, as it daily grows and strengthens, fills 
its owner with inward peace and perfect con- 
tent ! Oh, I have so enjoyed this afternoon ! 
I feel, if I were a man, I should like to 
marry that girl.” 

“ And I,” answered her brother, “ should 
like to marry the mother. For such a wife 
I could give up everything, and feel perfectly 
contented.” 

“ Yes, she is certainly charming ; but so 




H 


DOROTHY FOX. 


they both are, and their manners are perfect. 
While I was watching them, I could but make 
some rather humiliating comparisons. Here 
was I pluming myself on my wonderful good 
breeding, the result of birth and society, and 
I come suddenly upon the wife and daughter 
of a country shopkeeper, who tell you that 
they have hardly ever been beyond the town 
they live in, and never mixed with other 
society than the members of their own com- 
munity, and yet the self-possession and grace- 
ful tact of the mother, when she covered 
your confusion at an awkward mistake by 
turning it at once into an attention paid to 
her family, and the pretty way in which the 
daughter told you that the flowers were just 
those she had been wishing for, might have 
been envied by a duchess.” 

“Quite so,” said her brother; “the true 
thing evidently springs from some other 
source than ‘ blue blood ’ alone.” 

“ I was very nearly endangering every claim 
I possess to good breeding,” exclaim ed Audrey. 
“ I really thought I must have had a fit of 
laughter at you, Charlie. You have no idea 
of the ridiculous figure you presented with 
that e'nOrmous nosegay ; only the geese were 
wanting to make the representation of the 
‘ Bashful Swain ’ complete.” 

Captain Verschoyle laughed. “ Well, cer- 
tainly,” he said, “ I never felt more com- 
pletely disconcerted in my life, and the worst 
of it was, I could think of nothing to say.” 

“ Fancy, Charlie, if mamma could have 
seen her son hors de combat before a shop- 
keeper’s wife !” 

“ Ah! poor mamma!” replied Captain Vers- 
choyle, “ she has a good many things to be 
shocked at yet.” 

“ I cannot think,” continued Audrey, “why 
you were so little impressed with the girl’s 
beauty ; to me she is loyely. She made me 
feel so old, and filled me with a desire to 
caress her and pet her and indulge her.” 

“ She is very much prettiei than I thought 
her,” answered her brother ; “ before, I princi- 
pally admired her quaint childishness.” 

“ Yes,” said Audrey, “ but that is only in 
her pretty half shy manner and appearance ; 
she can talk extremely well.” 

“Can she?” replied Captain Verschoyle 
absently. 

“ Of course she can,” exclaimed Audrey, 
“ but you were so taken up with her mother 
that I don’t believe you spoke ten words to 
her. However, it didn’t matter, for I saw she 
admired me much more than she did you.” 

“ Then all was as it should be, and we got 
an equal division of pleasure. I wonder what 
the father is like.” 


“ Oh, vulgar, I daresay,” replied Audrey. 

“ And I dare say not,” returned hei 
brother ; “ peculiar he may be, disagreeable 
perhaps, but the husband of that woman 
could not continue vulgar.” 

“No, you are right, Charles,” answered 
Audrey, “ and I only wish I could see them 
often. I know they would do me good, and 
keep down that ‘ envy, hatred, and malice ’ 
which poisons much of my better nature. 
This afternoon’s visit is the delightful ter- 
mination to our holiday. Say you have 
enjoyed the last week, Charlie dear, for I 
don’t believe I was ever so happy in my life 
before.” 

Next morning they took their departure 
reluctantly. Marshall quite entered into their 
regret, for, in addition to the scenery, she left 
behind the landlady’s son, home from sea, 
who, “though a little free in speech and 
rough in voice, was a tender, kind-hearted crea- 
ture.” Moreover, he was so attentive to 
“ Miss Marshall,” that she hardly knew what 
to think of his intentions. At parting he 
had given her a white satin heart-shaped 
pincushion, worked with beads, and had told 
her to accept it as emblematic, though his 
own heart was not so hard. So it had been 
a happy week to all of them, and as the train 
carried them beyond the possibility of another 
glimpse of the old town of Plymouth, they 
sighed that it was over. 

Lady Laura was at St. Thomas’s station to 
meet them, and it rejoiced Captain Vers- 
choyle’s heart to see the tears of joy in his 
mother’s eyes, and her contented look, as 
with her hand in his they drove to Shilston 
Hall. 

“ Miss Brocklehurst will be so pleased to 
see you both,” said Lady Laura. “ She has 
talked so much about you, that some of 
those horrid toadies of cousins have gone 
away in disgust. I am very glad now that 
Audrey went to you, Charlie, although I en- 
dured agonies after she had left, fearing that 
she might catch some fever or dreadful com- 
plaint. You know, my dearest boy, nothing 
but the certainty that it would have been 
death to me, in my weak state, to have gone 
to such a place prevented me flying to you. 
It was a dreadful trial to remain here. And 
it was so thoughtful of you to stay away these 
two days longer, and have all your clothes 
thoroughly exposed to the air. My anxiety 
for your return prevented my suggesting such 
a thing.” 

“ Do you intend staying here much longer, 
mamma?” interrupted Audrey. 

“ I think not,” answered Lady Laura. “We 


DOROTHY FOX. 


25 


are due at Dyne Court the beginning of next 
month, and I wqnt to stay in town for a few 
days before we go there. However, Charles 
shall decide, and I shall be governed by him.” 

“Oh no, mother,” said Captain Verschoyle, 
“ I do not want any of the bother of pre- 
eminence. You and Audrey must manage 
everything for me, and I shall be content to 
follow out any plans made for me.” 

“Very well,” returned his mother, delight- 
edly. “ If you throw the onus of manage- 
ment upon me, I think I may answer that 
you will have no cause for complaint. I have 
several pet schemes. on hand which I think 
you will approve of, and before next season 
comes I hope you will both be well esta- 
blished, and independent of everybody.” At 
this point Lady Laura gave a sigh ; and then, 
meeting her son’s eyes, pressed his hand, ex- 
claiming, “ I have not told you half what I 
suffered while you were awaj', nor how thank- 
ful I feel to have you with me once more.” 

CHAPTER V. THE CREWDSONS. 

Josiah Crewdson was a cloth-merchant 
of Leeds, where for many years his family 
had held a good position, and were esteemed 
and respected by their fellow-townsmen. 
They adhered closely to the manners 
and customs of the sect to which they be- 
longed. Josiah therefore wore the dress 
almost universally adopted by strict Friends. 
His coat, retaining its swallow tails, gave 
way a little in the matter of the old straight 
collar, which a lining of velvet, turned down, 
served partly to hide ; and instead of a white 
cravat, he adopted a scarf of black silk or 
satin ; but with these exceptions his costume 
was in all respects that of the old school. 

In appearance Josiah was short and broad 
set, with ruddy whiskerless face, and an 
undue amount of colour, which seemed to 
deepen like a girl’s on the smallest provoca- 
tion. Had it not been for the excessive 
gravity of his speech and manner, he would 
have struck people as boyish. And boyish his 
face really was, although his figure might have 
belonged to a middle-aged man. Except 
when engaged in business, Josiah was pain- 
fully shy, and very sensitive as to his own 
personal defects. He greatly envied the 
ease of manner and fluency of speech which 
most men seemed naturally to possess ; and 
he often wondered what could possibly make 
him so bashful and stupid. These two defects 
resulted entirely from the hard school in 
which his boyhood and youth had been 
passed. 

His father, a stern, narrow-minded man, 


had certain fixed notions and plans on which 
he invariably acted, and for which he could 
give no better reason than that such was his 
rule. It was his rule, for instance, never to 
allow the smallest indulgence to his children, 
but to deny them every amusement. He 
punished each small offence, and magnified an 
omission into a glaring fault. He condemned 
all lightness of heart, and called all manifesta- 
tion of tenderness nonsensical and ridiculous. 
His two daughters, who were many years older 
than Josiah, were cast in the same mould as 
their father. To them it was no hard task 
to obey regulations which exactly fitted in 
with their own cramped views. 

But Josiah was not a Crewdson. He took 
after the mother, who had died when he was 
born ; and for this abominable want of sense 
the family never entirely forgave him. 

Surrounded by all the comforts of life, the 
Crewdsons ought to have been a cheerful, 
happy family ; instead of which they were 
dull and gloomy. The silence of a prison 
seemed to reign over them. They seldom 
met save at meals, where conversation was 
strictly forbidden. Except to ask for what 
they needed, not a voice was raised. 
Directly the business of eating was over, all 
the members were expected to occupy them- 
selves immediately with their duties. Amuse- 
ments were regarded as contemptible snares, 
which old Crewdson said were not needed 
by rational beings. If, therefore, J osiah, as a 
boy, interested himself in any little diversion 
which in the case of one differently brought 
up would have been extremely tame and 
uninteresting, Jemima or Kezia were down 
upon him, and if he did not at once relinquish 
his newly-found hobby, woe betide him. 
Thus was he kept in utter subjection ; his 
spirit curbed, his geniality suppressed, his 
tongue tied, and his whole nature turned, as 
it were, from its natural source and diverted 
into the groove which his father had laid 
down for it. And when old Crewdson died, 
people wondered why Josiah continued just 
the same man, permitting his two sisters 
to rule his household and lecture and snub 
him as they had done all his lifetime. They 
forgot that twenty-five years of brow-beating 
leaves such an amount of bashfulness and 
spiritlessness, that unless a man turn at once 
into a bully and a tyrant, many years will 
hardly suffice to remove it. In one thing 
Josiah’s father had not laboured in vain, and 
that was to make his son a thorough man of 
business. Josiah’s capacity for business was 
the only thing the old man appreciated in 
him. The lad soon saw that on this ground 


2 6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


they met on an equal footing, that his diffi- 
dence gave way, and his natural good sense 
had full swing. He showed such undoubted 
talent that for some years before his father’s 
death the entire management had almost 
fallen into his hands, and the trade, which 
was very considerable, had steadily increased. 
Josiah was accordingly looked upon as one 
of the wealthiest and most prosperous of the 
younger members belonging to the Society 
of Friends. 

Between the Crewdsons and the Foxes 
there had always been a close intimacy, and 
it was the wish of Nathaniel Fox and old 
Stephen Crewdson, that this bond might be still 
further strengthened by the ultimate marriage 
of Dorothy and Josiah. Josiah had not seen 
Dorothy since she was a girl of fourteen. 
But even then he quite regarded her as his 
destined future wife ; and many people^vould 
have been somewhat surprised to know that 
this sedate-looking man, who was apparently 
engrossed in his business (for besides being 
a cloth merchant, he was a railway and bank 
director), looked forward with the greatest 
satisfaction to the time when a sweet young 
wife would lovingly greet his return and 
brighten his home, taking the place of the two 
gaunt figures, who, seated on the stiffest of 
horse-hair chairs, and clothed in the most 
terribly severe coloured alpacas, now con- 
sidered it their duty to bear their testimony 
and uphold their principles whenever he pro- 
posed anything pleasant or a little contrary 
to their established customs. Yes, the fact 
was that Josiah’s warm answers were often 
checked by the thought that very soon the 
whole domestic arrangements would be 
changed. 

The proposed alliance between their brother 
and Dorothy Fox was of course no secret to the 
Miss Crewdsons. As it had been an arrange- 
ment of their father’s, they entirely approved 
of it. In common with most of the lead- 
ing Friends, they considered it an excellent 
and sensible union, and one which it was 
now almost high time to bring to a conclu- 
sion. Dorothy was nineteen, and twenty-one 
was considered a fitting age for a maiden to 
become a wife. Two years would thus be 
given for a more open engagement, and then 
the necessary preparation for settling would all 
be properly gone about ; for nothing done in 
haste could, according to the Crewdson 
ideas, be performed with that decency and 
order which befitted Friends. 

The thought that it was high time these 
two young people should see a little more of 
each other had also entered Nathaniel Fox’s 


head. Therefore it was fixed, after a consul- 
tation with his wife, that an invitation should 
be sent to Josiah, requesting him to spend 
a short time at Plymouth. Nathaniel said 
he knew his friend was too much occupied 
to make a long stay, but the more time he 
could give them the better pleased they 
should be. 

Josiah readily accepted the invitation ; 
and it was with no little excitement that 
he was now looking forward to seeing his 
future wife. He began to arrange matters 
so that he might pay a visit to Exeter on the 
way, and be present at a wedding to which 
he had been invited, and which was about to 
take place between John Cash, his cousin, 
and Elizabeth Dymond, a relative of the 
Foxes. He knew Dorothy had been asked 
to assist as bridesmaid ; but no sooner had 
Nathaniel heard that Elizabeth was to be 
adorned in a white lace veil and an orange 
wreath, while her bridesmaids were to keep 
her company in coloured dresses and bon- 
nets, than he sternly refused his consent to 
her going. He said he would as soon that 
his daughter should exhibit herself before a 
booth at Plymouth fair, as take part in such 
a raree-show. 

Jemima and Kezia Crewdson of course 
were as severe in their censure. They told 
Josiah that he, too, ought to bear his testi- 
mony against such worldly wickedness by 
refusing to be present ; but a letter from 
Nathaniel, in which he begged Josiah to go, 
and seize the opportunity of rebuking the 
wedding party, had altered their tone. They 
now employed every moment they were with 
their brother in repeating to him the various 
remarks that had occurred to them as suit- 
able for him to say, and which were calcu- 
lated most effectually to damp all cheerfulness 
and hilarity. 

Josiah, however, had not the slightest in- 
tention of saying one word of rebuke. He 
was too painfully abve to his own awkward- 
ness and shyness to contemplate standing up 
before a number of people, many of them 
strangers to him, and delivering himself of 
a caustic speech. But as his habit was, he 
silently listened to all their conversation, 
not even indulging in a yes or no, unless 
absolutely compelled. 

He was to start the next morning very 
early, so he sat attentively while Jemima, 
who had packed up his things, gave him the 
necessary information as to the reasons which 
had made her apparently collect together the 
most incongruous assortment of material. It 
was rather amusing to see these two women 


2 7 


DOROTHY FOX. 


regarding their business-like brother as utterly 
incapab’e. They had done so when he was a 
schoolboy, and so they did now. They packed 
his box for him, and they put up his parcels ; 
but when Kezia commenced to give him 
various hints as to his mode of conduct 
towards Dorothy, it became too ridiculous, 
and Josiah was obliged to return her a mild 
reproof. 

“ Thank thee, Kezia, but, doubtless, when 
the time comes I shall find words to make 
myself agreeable to Dorothy.” 

“ That speech is somewhat self-sufficient, 
Josiah,” answered Jemima, immediately taking 
up the cudgels for her sister — “a fault 
our lather always warned thee especially to 
guard against. Kezia’s remark was a just 
one ; and Dorothy Fox, if she is what I take 
her to be, is too earnest an upholder of our 
principles to be caught by frivolous words 
and wor dly phrases. ” 

Josiah knew that any answer would only 
draw him into an argument in which he was 
certain to come off worst, so he made no 
further comment, but promised to deliver all 
the messages he was charged with, particu- 
larly to tell Patience Fox that they would be 
pleased to have a visit from Dorothy, in 
order that they might become better ac- 
quainted. Then they bade him farewell, 
and hoped, grimly, that he would enjoy 
himself. 

“ Thank thee,” returned Josiah, “ I think 
I shall. This is the first holiday I have had 
for so long that I shall do my best to make 
it pleasant.” 

“Well,” said Jemima, with a gloomy 
nod of the head, “ I wish it may turn out 
so.” 

“One would not give credit to thy wish 
by thy face,” laughed Josiah, for the prospect 
of the change had raised his spirits, and 
made him unusually talkative and bold. The 
sisters looked at each other, as though they 
said, “ If he was going to see the Foxes 
in this spirit, what will Dorothy think of 
him ?” 

“ There is one thing thou shouldst bear in 
mind, Josiah,” said Kezia, looking with her 
most severe aspect ; “ and that is, that flip- 
pancy of speech leads to much error, and is 
against the principles thou hast been taught 
to obey.” 

“ Yes ; and it was a thing our father espe- 
cially warned thee against,” added Jemima. 
“I have often heard him say, that even a 
fool when he was silent was counted a wise 
man.” With which flattering remark, Josiah 
was left to his own reflections. 


CHAPTER VI. HER LADYSHIP’S PLANS. 

Lady Laura Verschoyle’s house was a 
small excrescence on a sort of by-way which 
connected a fashionable London square with 
a fashionable London street. Lady Laura 
always spoke of her house as 27, Egmont 
Street, which was true, only it would have 
been more correct to have said 2 7 a, Egmont 
Street. The letter a seemed a very trifling 
addition, yet the difference that such a small 
sign indicated between the houses was some- 
what startling; for whereas No. 27, Eg- 
mont Street, would have been termed “ that 
desirable family mansion,” and was the town 
house of a baronet with ^15,000 a-year, 2 7 a, 
Egmont Street, would have been advertised 
as “an elegant bijou residence,” and was the 
sole dwelling-place of Lady Laura Verschoyle, 
who on ^1,500 a-year found it very difficult 
to compete with her more fortunate neigh- 
bours. Had she been contented to live on 
the other side of the Park, she might have 
had a cheerful, comfortable house instead of 
this inconvenient one, where, to make a 
tolerably good reception room, all the other 
apartments had been robbed of their height 
or breadth. 2 7 a had a most cheerless prospect, 
the front being shadowed by the high garden 
wall of a grand house which looked into the 
Park. All the back windows were frosted 
over, that no glimpse might be caught of the 
mews into which they opened. Taking it as 
a whole, it would have been difficult to find 
a like rented abode with so little to recom- 
mend it besides what was to Lady Laura its 
all-powerful attraction — the fact of its being 
situated in one of the most fashionable locali- 
ties of London. 

The jesting, laughing, and quarrelling which 
Lady Laura could not help hearing from 
the back could not offend her so much 
when she remembered that it came from 
the grooms or coachmen of a marquis or an 
earl ; and though the chief passers by were 
footmen, pages, or tradesmen’s porters, they 
‘were all either going to or coming from some 
grand house, and so found more favour in Lady 
Laura’s eyes than the fine stalwart sons and 
fresh pretty daughters of “ those middle-class 
people who are always trying to seem better 
than they are ” would have done. 

Lady Laura, with her son and daughter, 
had left Shilston Hall the day before, and 
arrived at her house in Egmont Street, in- 
tending to spend a few days there, and then 
go on to Dyne Court. ihe horses were 
turned out ; the footman and housemaid were 
away on board wages, and only the cook (with 


28 


DOROTHY FOX. 


her niece from the country) remained of the 
usual household. The curtains had been 
all taken down, and the furniture covered 
up for the summer ; and as the family were 
only going to stay a short time, Lady Laura 
had not thought it necessary to have more 
than the dining-room got ready. They could 
manage, she said, without going to the ex- 
pense of recalling the other servants. Cer- 
tainly on this occasion, circumstances were 
very much against 2 7 a, Egmont Street, look- 
ing the least like a house speaking of wel- 
come and an invitation to settle down and 
enjoy the quiet pleasures of life. 

So, at least, thought Captain Verschoyle 
as he descended rather earlier than cook had 
expected the morning after their arrival. 
The close heat and the active habits of the in- 
habitants of the Mews had driven sleep from 
his eyes at a very early hour, and he now 
somewhat ruefully surveyed the small un- 
comfortable room as the woman made as 
hasty a retreat as possible, apologising for 
being so late, and promising breakfast as 
soon as it could be got ready. 

“ What an awfully dingy place this is ! ” 
thought he ; “ how can they exist here ? I 
don’t wonder at that poor girl wanting to 
get married. Well! I hope when I have a 
wife I shall have a better home than this ; 
although she must help to provide it, for I 
have not much more than half my mother’s 
income. I shall certainly look after this 
heiress Audrey was speaking of, for money 
is a considerable sweetener of life.” 

And then certain memories of his early 
days arose, when he had pictured a home 
and an angel to share it ; and he smiled over 
these visions, so dimmed now. In books 
you might read of love’s enduring through 
life ; poets spoke of its standing strong unto 
death ; but speaking from his own expe- 
rience, he had never seen it stand out before 
an elder son or wealthier man. Several 
times he had been deceived into thinking 
he had secured a love pure and fresh enough 
to withstand all other temptations, but he* 
had been rudely awakened from his dream to 
find that his successful rival possessed the 
real “ Open, sesame,” to all women’s hearts — 
a rent-roll or a cheque-book. 

So he began to resolve that he would try 
the barter system, and see how much money 
his good looks and name and position 
could bring him. An uncle had left him an 
income of ^700 a year independent of his 
mother, but, as he often ruefully said, it was 
impossible lor him to think of marrying upon 
that. No, no; he would do as other men 


I 


did. He would go in for money, and he 
might chance to get a nice girl, and if he 
didn’t — why, she must go her way and he 
must go his. Then he jumped up suddenly 
and exclaimed, “ What a bothersome nuisance 
poverty is ! I wish I was not such an ex- 
travagant fellow ; a good wife would be the 
saving of me, if she only loved me enough. She 
would soon make me ashamed of my selfish- 
ness, and I believe make me do anything to 
please her. I wonder why fate has never 
sent such a woman across my path ? I sup- 
pose there are such treasures in the world.” 

Here his reflections were suddenly brought 
to an end by the entrance of his sister, who, 
hearing from Marshall that Captain Vers- 
choyle was already in the dining-room, came 
hurrying down in her morning wrapper to 
keep him company at breakfast. 

“ Accept, my dear Charlie, this tribute to 
fraternal affection — the sight of your beloved 
and admired sister minus the adornment of 
person substituted by the modern Briton for 
the woad of their ancestors.” 

“ I am delighted to see you under any 
circumstances,” said Captain Verschoyle, “for 
I was just beginning to take a very rueful 
view of things in general.” 

“ Ah, now you have just spoilt your com- 
pliment,” laughed Audrey; “ had you stopped 
at circumstances I should have tapped you on 
the shoulder, after the fashion of the stage 
coquette, and cried ‘courtier;’ as it is, ro- 
mance has vanished, and I am merely 
regarded as a dispeller of ‘the blues.’ So 
ring the bell and we’ll sit down to breakfast 
in the Darby and Joan style of everyday life.” 

As soon as the servant had departed 
Audrey made a little moue at the breakfast 
table and said, — 

“ This does not look well after Shilston, 
does it?” 

“ No,” replied her brother ; “but what an 
awfully dismal place this is — so close and 
stuffy ! Besides, I can hardly breathe.” 

“Poor old Charlie!” exclaimed Audrey, 

“ it is too bad not to make home look its 
best to welcome you back. It is a most un- 
comfortable room, and just now it certainly 
looks its worst. Whenever I return from 
staying out, I always feel that we have the 
most inconvenient and the most dingy house 
in the world— a sham, my dear, like the 
part we play in life, and a hanger on to a 
grand locality, just as we are to our noble 
relations. Oh ! when these things grate on 
me and rub me up the wrong way, as they so 
offen do, is it any wonder that I turn idolater 
and worship mammon?” 



DOROTHY FOX 


29 


“ Well, no,” returned Captain Verschoyle. 

“ I feel with you. I do not believe either of 
us would shrink from good honest poverty, 
but it is the straining after what we cannot 
reach that frets one. I only wish that dear 
mother of ours would feel the same, and 
always say she cannot afford what really can 
give neither you nor her much pleasure.” 

“ Ah ! there it lies,” said Audrey. “ I 
have become so accustomed to deception 
that I sometimes ask, am I not cheating 
myself into an idea that I do not care for 
those very excitements which form the whole 
business of my life? No, I can only be sure 
of one thing insuring happiness, and that is 
money ; and I intend to go to Dyne Court, 
armed to the teeth with charms to subdue its 
master, and come away only to return to it 
as its mistress — Mrs. Richard Ford. An 
aristocratic name, is it not ? I hear mamma 
whispering to people, ‘An old Windsor family, 
mentioned, if you recollect, by Shakespeare.’ 
Let me see, Mrs. Ford was a merry wife — 
hum ! But from the view I at present take 
of Mr. Richard Ford, .his wife will be a 
merry widow.” 

Captain Verschoyle laughingly shook his 
head, saying, “ Come, it is too bad to be 
sending the old gentleman off into the other 
world before you have got possession of him 
in this one. But how about my heiress ? for 
I am thinking seriously of her; it is quite 
time I got married, and as you seem to think 
her ladylike and tractable, I will resign my- 
self, and bid farewell to my early visions.” 

“ What were they ? ” inquired Audrey. 

“ Oh, a home reigned over by an ideal 
creature, who was too ethereal to care for 
more than I could give her, and earthly 
enough to love, with all her heart, a stupid, 
common-place fellow like me.” 

“ You dear old creature !” said Audrey. 
“ Any woman might be proud of you ; so 
don’t take such a very limited view of your 
mental and bodily advantages. Miss Selina 
Bingham will very readily listen to your suit, 
I am sure, as I should do if I had ^£5 0,000 ; 
but, being as I am, prudence would bid 
me take safety in flight from such a ‘braw 
wooer/” 

“ Audrey,” said Captain Verschoyle, “ I 
wonder if you are as mercenary as you would 
have me think. One thing I do not believe, 
and that is, that you ever were in love.” 

“ No,” replied his sister, looking very 
serious. “ Among all the slings and arrows 
which outrageous lortune has aimed at me, a 
merciful Providence has defended me from 
Love’s bow. I cannot say,” she continued, 


laughing, “that I have not felt the scratch of 
the arrow as it glanced off ; and, slight as the 
wound has always been, it has just given me 
an idea of the force with which it could come. 
This has made me look to my breastplate, that 
I might render it invulnerable. But that was 
years ago, and I am tolerably safe in my 
own strength now, and think that I could 
hold a successful siege against the most fas- 
cinating younger son in England.” 

“ Don’t be too confident,” said her brother. 

“ Many a stronghold that has stoutly prepared 
itself for a siege has been taken by storm.” 

“ My dear Charles, as your mother would 
say, do not be guilty of jesting on such a 
grave subject. Apropos of mamma, I have 
often thought over what line she would pur- 
sue if we were to marry poor nobodys. Of 
course, she would be furious, but I verily 
believe she would go about telling our friends 
that she was overjoyed, for she had always 
brought up her children to follow the dictates 
of their hearts.” 

“Come, come,” replied Captain Verschoyle, 
“ you are too hard on the poor mater P 

“ Indeed, I don’t mean to be so,” said 
Audrey. “ But mamma, as a study, is perfect ; 
she is so thorough in her cajolery. When 
I begin to be illusory I feel after a time that 
I should like to tell people the truth. My 
vanity wants to be gratified by showing how 
clever I am at deception. But it is not so 
with mamma. She believes in her fraud, and 
conveys it to others with such a semblance 
of truth, that sometimes even I am staggered. 
Don’t look so shocked, Charlie, I do not 
mean to be undutiful ; but this is the way I 
have been brought up. How can you expect 
me to have the faith which they say girls 
should have in their mothers, when the very 
first things I remember of mamma are, ‘ Don’t 
tell your papa such a thing,’ or ‘ If Aunt Spen- 
cer asks you, you must say — ’ well — something 
quite opposed to the truth ? However, it is 
mean of me to shelter myself under the cloak 
of my teaching ; I ought rather to thank her 
for having given me this experience, so that 
if ever I have children, and cannot gain their 
love, I’ll try to gain their respect. And some- 
times,” she added, with a sigh, “ I think that 
is my last hope of being what I sometimes 
wish to be — a better woman. But, there, I 
really don’t know — I am not worse than my 
neighbours ; and with that very original and 
consolatory remark I will conclude my little 
speech, go and pay my devoirs to her lady- 
ship, and take her maternal advice on the 
most becoming toilette to be worn at Dyne 
Court.” 


3 ° 


DOROTHY FOX. 


She left, and Captain Verschoyle began to 
consider what he had to do in London, and 
what he should want in the country. He 
had sent Hallett off on a holiday, and there- 
fore felt that he ought to be busy packing, 
only he did not quite see what he wanted. 
So he, too, wandered to his mother’s room, 
to seek her advice, which on all matters of 
dress and adornment was unquestionably 
good. 

Lady Laura admitted her son after a little 
hesitation and scrambling about the room. 
He iound her at breakfast, the different 
chairs being covered with dresses of various 
kinds, with hats, bonnets, and mantles which 
Marshall was consulting her about, as to this 
trimming being altered, or those flowers 
changed, so that they might better accord 
with the fashion of the new additions to the 
wardrobe. 

She motioned Captain Verschoyle into a 
chair, saying, — 

“ In onq minute, my dear, I’ll attend to 
you.” 

Then, turning again to the maid, she went 
on with some final directions and suggestions, 
after which she dismissed her, and threw 
herself back in her chair, saying in a piteous 
tone, — 

“ Oh, my dear Charles, I devoutly hope 
this plan for Audrey will succeed, for it is 
getting more than my strength will bear to 
be constantly contriving that her dress shall 
appear as various and fresh as that of the 
girls we meet out. You know I should be 
dead to feeling did it not pain me to have 
her still on my hands. Considering the ad- 
vantages and opportunities she has had, and 
the ettorts I have made, it is wonderful to 
me that she is not married. When I look 
round and see the plain, common-place girls 
(with mothers who have not seemed to care 
a pin who they talked to or danced with) 
married, and married well too, and all since 
Audrey came out — well ! it only shows one 
that there must be some higher power than 
ours moving in such matters.” 

“ She'll get married yet, mother,” answered 
her son. “ I am certainly surprised at her 
being single still ; but, perhaps, you have ex- 
pected too much for her. Who is this man 
we’re going to visit now, and where did you 
meet him?” 

“We met him last Christmas at the Bou- 
veries,” replied her ladyship. “ Audrey took 
part in some charades and tableaux they got 
up, and he so admired her, and paid her so 


much attention, that I quite thought he would 
have proposed then ; but not being able to 
find out everything about him, I did not en- 
courage him so much as I should now. He 
is quite a millionaire ; and Dyne Court is a 
lovely place. He said then that he hoped 
we would come and see him in the summer, 
when this new place, which he had recently 
bought, and which was then undergoing ex- 
tensive alterations, would be. ready; and about 
six w r eeks since I had a letter begging me to 
fix my time, and he would then ask a few 
people to meet us.” 

“ So you thought that looked like busi- 
ness,” laughed her son. 

“ Coming from such a man, I did. He’s 
quite one of those new people,” continued 
Lady Laura ; “ but so sensible — he couldn’t 
at first believe that I was Audrey’s mother. 
I have quite forgotten now how he made his 
money, but I daresay it was by brewing, or 
Manchester, perhaps; and it’s quite the fashion 
for good families to marry those sort of people, 
provided they are very wealthy 

“But,” said Captain Verschoyle, “he must 
be a great deal older than Audrey.” 

“ Well, yes, there is a difference certainly, 
still nothing to speak of. I almost wish he 
would wear a wig, for being so bald makes 
him look rather old. However, when they 
are married it won’t make any difference, and 
if Audrey cared for him to look younger I 
should suggest the wig ; but I don’t think 
she will trouble herself about him then, and 
he is certainly not older than Lord Totnes 
was, nor Lady Gwendoline Farnham’s hus- 
band.” 

“ I hope he’s presentable,” exclaimed Cap- 
tain Verschoyle. 

“ Oh dear, yes !” answered his mother. 
“ Of course you must be prepared for the 
manner of the British merchant— honest and 
bluff ; but many people like that now. I 
remember Lord Tewkesbury saying that 
nothing pleased him better. However, you 
will soon be able to judge for yourself. We 
shall leave on Thursday morning, and I hope 
we shall all enjoy our visit, for Audrey is not 
the only one I have formed plans lor. The 
welfare of my children is always next my 
heart, my dear Charles ; and if I could see 
you both well married, with good establish- 
ments, such as your family and position 
entitle you to expect, I could sink into com- 
parative insignificance, feeling that I had 
carried out and accomplished my work in 
life, and had not lived in vain.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


3 1 



PAB T III. 


CHAPTER VII. JOSIAH CREWDSON'S WOOING. 

, N every wo- 
man’s breast 
is born the 
, desire to cap- 
1 tivate. It 
| depends on 
| her charac- 
| ter whether 
! or not this 
: may develop 
itself into 
vanity. But 
in its early 
1 stage, when 
she is yet 
totally unac- 
q u a i n t e d 
| with her own 
power, she 
views her 
P charms with 
hopes and fears, and her great desire is that 



she may please. It was this which made 
Dorothy Fox linger over her adornment 
longer than was her habit on that afternoon 
when Josiah Crewdson was expected. 

He was to arrive at five o’clock, and it was 
now past four, and time that she should join 
her mother, whose step she had heard descend- 
ing the stairs fully ten minutes before. Yet 
Dorothy returned to the glass and gave her- 
self another inspection. She was fully ac- 
quainted with her father’s wishes, and knew 
the reason of this visit. The attentions 
she was bestowing on her appearance were 
therefore only the natural promptings of a 
woman’s heart to look her best in the eyes ot 
the man who is her lover ; for, except by name, 
Josiah Crewdson was almost unknown to her. 
She had hesitatingly asked her mother if 
she had not better put on her lavender 
silk dress, and Patience had accorded an 
immediate assent. Dorothy, therefore, in 
spite of grave colours and old-fashioned style, 
looked such a girl as the most fastidious 


32 


DOROTHY FOX. 


man might feel pleased to let his eyes dwell 
upon. She certainly admired herself, and 
fearing that this feeling, which was not entirely 
new to her, might not be quite consistent, 
she hurried down-stairs to avoid further 
temptation. 

Patience regarded her daughter with eyes 
full of motherly pride and love, and then the 
thought came of that someone they we*e 
expecting who would perhaps take her trea- 
sure from her. At this she repressed a little 
sigh, which made Dorothy declare that her 
mother had been over-exerting herself. Then 
she fetched her work and seated herselt by 
her mother’s side to wait Josiah’s arrival. 
After a few minutes’ silence, Patience’s reverie 
was disturbed by Dorothy saying — 

“I am glad Josiah was present at Eliza- 
beth’s wedding — it will be so nice to hear 
all about it. I do so wish father would have 
let me go.” 

“ I should have liked thee to be present, 
because it would have given thee pleasure,” 
answered Patience ; “ and,” she added, “ for 
that reason thy father would have desired it 
too ; the dress alone made him refuse thee.” 

There was a pause, and then Dorothy said 
suddenly— 

“ Mother, I never thought our dress so 
ugly until I saw Audrey Verschoyle. Oh ! I 
should like to wear clothes like those she 
had on. Was she not beautiful ?” 

“ No,” said Patience ; “ I did not think 
her beautiful. She was very graceful and 
elegant, and with a face which would make 
one say she had more goodness in her heart 
than in her mouth. She seemed to take a 
great fancy to thee.” 

“ Yes ; she said she wished we lived nearer 
one another, that she might often see me. 
I wish so too. Are people who are not 
Friends mostly like the Verschoyles, I won- 
der?” 

Patience laughed. “ That way of putting 
it is scarcely flattering to ourselves, dear,” 
she said ; “ though doubtless they who see 
various places and mix with various people 
gain a more agreeable manner and mode of 
expression than stay-at-home folks like us. 
She interested me greatly, although not so 
much as her brother did. What did thou 
think of him ?” 

Dorothy felt vexed with herself because 
the foolish colour would mount into her 
face, and only for the reason that she had 
naturally thought a good deal of the hand- 
some stranger. How could it be otherwise, 
indeed, when he was, in a way, the hero in 
the only event which had ever happened in 


the whole of her quiet life? So without 
looking up she answered, — 

“He was quite unlike any one I ever saw 
before. What a pity that he should be a 
soldier ! And yet, mother, dost thou know ? I 
am very fond of reading about soldiers and 
battles, for they have a kind of charm for 
me. I fear sometimes it is not quite right.” 

Patience smiled at Dorothy’s earnestness, 
for the atmosphere with which the girl was 
surrounded naturally had its effect upon her. 
Dorothy had been so entirely nurtured in the 
opinions of Friends that the slightest deviation 
into anything that they considered unallow- 
able was locked upon by her as a failure in 
duty; and this erring on the right side, as 
Patience considered it, only caused her to 
feel greater anxiety that her daughter should 
see more of the world. For some time past 
she had been urging Nathaniel to give his 
consent to her paying a long-promised visit 
to her sister Grace in London, and after- 
wards going on to see her aunt Abigail at 
York. 

“ I hope thou wilt have more opportunity 
given thee of seeing the world than I have 
had, Dorothy,” she said. “ Sometimes I am 
led to wonder whether our views are not a 
little narrowed by the small circle in which we 
move. Charles Verschoyle gave me much 
to reflect upon by his description of the late 
war. But I hear footsteps — it must be — yes, 
it is thy father. But where is Josiah Crewd- 
son ?” she asked, addressing Nathaniel as he 
entered. 

“He is with me,” answered Nathaniel; 
“ only I have out-stepped him by coming 
through the bacv way to speak to James. 
Here he is,” and Nathaniel, after allowing 
Patience to welcome their guest, took him by 
the arm and led him up to Dorothy, saying— 

“ Dost thou recollect her? — this is Dorothy.” 

Josiah thought he stood before the most 
beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life, 
and all the speech which, on his way from 
Exeter, he had been concocting, and which 
had seemed to flow more glibly each time he 
had repeated it to himself, suddenly died 
away ; and all his nervous shyness, which he 
hoped he had left behind him at Leeds, 
seemed to rush back upon him, and he could 
only take Dorothy’s stretched-out hand and 
stammer, — 

“ Oh ! indeed. How art thou ?” 

Dorothy answered, that she was quite well, 
and hoped he was the same ; and then Josiah 
sat down in the most uncomfortable position 
on the nearest chair, and furtively glanced 
again at Dorothy, who, in order to give him 


DOROTHY FOX. 


33 


time to recover himself, looked steadily in 
another diiection. 

Patience asked him several questions re- 
lating to his journey, until Nathaniel, find- 
ing it was within half-an-hour of dinner-time, 
suggested that Josiah had better be shown to 
his room. He and Patience went off with 
him, and Dorothy was left alone. 

As soon as they were out of the room, 
Dorothy’s face assumed a very blank expres- 
sion. Oh, how different Josiah was from what 
she had thought ! Not a bit the same. He was 
so plain — and quite fat— not the least like 
the man she expected to meet. Poor Josiah 
certainly suffered very much by comparison 
with a figure which had for the last few weeks 
moved pretty constantly in Dorothy’s imagi- 
nation. Quite unknown as it was to herself, 
I doubt much if she would have b^en so 
painmlly struck with Josiah’s appearance had 
Fate decreed t u at they should meet before 
her adventure with Captain Verschoyle. But 
since that time, he had formed the type of 
the romance hero to her — her ideal of a 
lover; whilst Josiah’s light eyes and whisker- 
less face presented a sorry contrast to this 
standard of personal perfection. 

She was still ruefully contemplating her 
disappointment, when the door opened, and 
the object of her thoughts, having completed 
his somewhat hasty toilette, entered the room. 
He had made up his mind to shake off his 
ridiculous nervousness this time, and to plunge 
headlong into any topic which presented 
itself. But with the exception of that never- 
failing resource, the weather, not an idea 
would come at his bidding. So he said that 
it was “ very warm, but seasonable and 
this happy remai k being agreed to, a silence 
ensued. Then Dorothy remembered that she 
was not quite consistently filling her post as 
hostess, and that it was incumbent u; on her 
to exert herself ; and this she did with such 
purpose, that Josiah became more at his ease, 
and could manage to give other than mono- 
syllabic answers to the questions put to him. 
The wedding, of course, proved a delightful 
theme for conversation, and by the time that 
Dorothy had laughed over his description of 
Elizabeth’s white stuff dress and gauze veil, 
Josiah plucked up courage sufficient to tell 
her how much more he should have enjoyed 
it had she been there. 

. “ Elizabeth told me to tell thee, that she 

missed thy face every time she looked at her 
bridesmaids,” said Josiah. 

“ Dear Elizabeth,” said Dorothy, her eyes 
filling with tears, “ she is always so kind. Did 
she not look very pretty ?” 


But Josiah was too lost in admiration of 
the speaker’s own sweet face to attend to her 
words. 

“ Eh ?” said Dorothy. 

“ What !” replied Josiah. 

“Did not Elizabeth look very pretty? I 
asked thee,” returned Dorothy, hardly able 
to refrain from laughing at his fixed gaze. 

“ Pretty ! oh, yes,” hastily answered Josiah, 
brought to a sense of his absent manner and 
open-mouthed stare, “ but I was thinking of 
thee ; she did not look like thee.” 

Here Dorothy laughed outright, declaring 
that he was keeping to that plainness of 
speech enjoined upon them. On this Josiah 
tried to defend and explain himself, but to no 
purpose — she would not listen. So, when Na- 
thaniel and Patience returned, all restraint 
seemed to have vanished, the two having 
apparently placed themselves on a perfectly 
familiar footing. Still, before the evening 
was over, each one felt that entertaining 
Josiah was no light task. At dinner, do 
what they could, it was impossible to draw 
him into conversation. Nathaniel quite ap- 
proved of children being brought up as the 
Crewdsons had been — to hold their tongues 
at meals and listen to their elders, — but 
when people arrived at years of discretion it 
was only fit that this restraint should be set 
aside. It was just as well to make the time 
pass pleasantly. But in the Crewdson house- 
hold the rule of silence still held good, so 
that though Josiah made the effort, he found 
it impossible. W T hen his plate was set before 
him, he could not do anything but eat up its 
contents as quickly as possible. Then he felt 
so awkward under the impression of watch- 
ing every mouthful the others ate, that he 
had one helping after another, until Dorothy 
decided that he had the most enormous ap- 
petite of any one she had ever seen. No ale 
or wine being drunk at dinner, coffee was 
served immediately afterwards, and they all 
adjourned to the drawing-room. Here Josiah 
went through another trial between his wish 
to assist Dorothy, who was seated at the table 
pouring out the coffee, and his fear lest he 
might by some awkwardness or other make 
himself ridiculous in her eyes. So it ended 
by his sitting on the very edge of his chair, 
and starting up like a Jack-in-the-box every 
time that Dorothy moved to hand the 
cup to any one. At last, Patience, taking 
pity on his evident bashfulness, said to 
him, — 

“ If thou wert to sit at the table, Josiah, 
thou might perhaps assist Dorothy.” 

After the coffee was cleared away, Na- 


34 


DOROTHY FOX. 


thaniel, with the view of bringing the two 
together (notwithstanding that he gave him- 
self a wonderful stretch indicative of relief 
as soon as their backs were turned), pro- 
posed that Dorothy should show Josiah the 
garden. This was just what Josiah had been 
wishing for. But the moment he was alone 
with her he found he could not say a word. 
So Dorothy had to take the initiative, and tell 
him the names of the flowers, and show him 
“ The King’s-heart ” yew-tree. 

During all this time poor Josiah gazed his 
heart away, so that he lay awake for hours 
that night recalling all that she had said and 
done — his own already humble opinion of 
himself dwindling into nothing as in the quiet 
of his own fancy he magnified all her charms. 

. Naturally, the newly-arrived guest was 
freely discussed by the whole household, 
who unanimously decided that he wasn’t at all 
the man for Miss Dorothy, of whom every- 
body said that she was a real beauty, more 
like a picture than a Quaker. Judith, who in 
her anxiety to see her dear child’s future hus- 
band had come out that same evening from 
Plymouth, was highly indignant at the master 
for contemplating such a match. She ex- 
pressed her opinions so plainly, that Dorothy 
had to take up the defence of Josiah, whom 
Judith in her wrath had that moment called 
a calf-faced jolter-head. 

“Oh, Judith!” replied Dorothy, reprov- 
ingly. “ It is wrong of thee to speak so of 
one whom father thinks so worthy.” 

“Worthy!” echoed Judith scornfully. 
“ Worthy of bein’ ducked for having the 
impudence to think of you, child, when every 
day you’re growin’ more sweet.” 

“ What is all this about?” said Patience, 
who had entered unobserved. 

Judith, who stood somewhat in awe of her 
gentle mistress, looked a little confused as 
she answered apologetically, — 

“ It’s only me, mistress, lettin’ my feelin’s 
roughen my tongue, and they both run on a 
good deal too fast ; but Mr. Crewdson isn’t 
the man at all I expected to see.” 

“No?” said Patience, looking rather 
grave; “but we must not be too hasty in 
our judgments, Judith.” 

“ I think when he is more accustomed to 
us, we shall like him better,” put in Dorothy ; 
“ he is so shy now.” 

“ Pie is not accustomed to strangers,” said 
Patience ; “ and thy father tells me old 
Stephen Crewdson was a stern man, and kept 
his children in great fear of him. So doubt- 
less Josiah will improve now he is his own 
master.” 


Having said this, Patience put her arm 
round Dorothy and drew her into her own 
room, thinking that the girl might tell her 
more definitely her impressions of her future 
husband. But Dorothy changed the subject, 
and talked about their projected excursions, 
until Nathaniel’s step was heard upon the 
stairs. Then she bade her mother good 
night ; and when she was alone wondered if 
she should ever get to like Josiah. She was 
very disappointed in him, certainly ; yet there 
seemed something nice about him. How 
odd it seemed to think that he might be her 
husband ! Then she fell asleep, and her 
dreams ran on weddings : and she, dressed 
like Elizabeth Cash, stood a bride with 
Josiah at her side, only, instead of being 
like himself, he was like Charles Vers- 
choyle. And when she awoke she thought 
what stupid nonsense comes into one’s head 
in dreams. 

The whole of the following week was de- 
voted to showing Josiah the beauties of the 
neighbourhood. Dorothy thoroughly enjoyed 
each day. She felt no restraint before Josiah 
now, and would run up and down the hills 
laughing at him ; while he, panting and puff- 
ing, seemed to gain each summit by the 
sweat of his brow. He had never yet found 
courage enough to tell Dorothy of his love 
for her, which hour by hour he felt growing 
stronger. He had made two or three at- 
tempts, but she had. always misinterpreted his 
speech, or turned it into tun ; and the slightest 
damper effectually put a stop to this bashful 
wooing. But now the last day had come, for 
he was to leave them the next morning. So 
Josiah was unusually silent, feeling that he 
ought to say something, and that Nathaniel 
would expect it of him. But how to say it 
while she was asking him questions and telling 
him stories about things so entirely removed 
from the subject he had at heart, he did not 
know. Still this was almost his last chance, 
for after their return from the Castle Hill 
they were to rejoin Patience and Nathaniel. 
In the midst of Dorothy’s speculations, then, 
as to the different appearance the place pre- 
sented now from what it did in the olden time, 
when it had been the constant scene of blood- 
shed and warfare — for this afternoon all was 
so peaceful and calm, that it was a fitting 
place for merry boys and girls to play and 
make sweet echo with their gleeful voices — - 
Josiah suddenly burst out with, — 

“ Dorothy, I do love you. I am so fond, 
that is — O Dorothy ! dost thou like me ?” 

Dorothy looked up rather startled at this 
abrupt diversion ; but none of that confusion 





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DOROTHY FOX. 


37 


or bashfulness, which a girl feels when she 
first > iscovers that she is loved by the man 
she loves, either stirred her nature or showed 
itself in her manner as she answered with 
assumed gravity, hiding a smile which lurked 
about the corners of her mouth, — 

“ Like thee, Josiah ? oh, yes. Are we not 
told to love all men as brothers ?” 

There was a pause. Then Dorothy looked 
up, and her eyes meeting his, he said, his 
face instead of Dorothy’s growing scarlet, — 

“ But, Dorothy, thou art so beautiful.” 

“ Oh ! Josiah, how canst thou !” exclaimed 
Dorothy in a tone of rebuke. “ Remember, 

* Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain,’ and 
we ought to bear our testimony against vanity 
of personal looks. I wonder at thee ; ” and 
Dorothy glanced with a greater degree of 
complacency towards Josiah, and an in- 
creased desire to know what he had to say to 
her. But these two answers had completely 
overwhelmed Josiah, whose small stock of 
eloquence immediately forsook him. The 
teaching he had so long received, to the effect 
that whenever he was going to act on his 
own impulses he was certain to make himself 
ridiculous, now took possession of him. He 
had only stammered and stuttered out some- 
thing about their two fathers having intended 
that they should like each other, and that he 
was such an awkward sort of fellow, when 
they met Patience and Nathaniel. The mis- 
sionary meeting being held that night at 
King’s-heart, no other opportunity presented 
itself. But before Josiah ancj Dorothy said 
good night, he whispered to her, — 

“ Dorothy, thou wilt try and like me ? ” 

“ Try ?” she said laughingly ; “ I tell thee I 
do like thee.” She ran up-stairs, but turned 
round when she reached the top ; and, find- 
ing that Josiah still stood looking after her, 
she nodded and laughed the more, thinking 
“ what a funny face he has when he looks 
like that,” which meant that a despairing ex- 
pression did not suit poor Josiah’s common- 
place countenance. Charles V erschoyle would 
have expressed his feelings by a look which 
would have touched the heart of the coldest 
woman ; Josiah, although actuated by quite 
as fine feelings, could only produce laughter 
in the woman the smallest dole of whose 
love he was longing to possess. 

Josiah and Nathaniel had some conversa- 
tion that evening respecting Dorothy. All 
Josiah could say was, that Dorothy had said 
she liked him. 

“Well, I think that is as much as thou 
canst expect at once,” replied Nathaniel, 
encouragingly. “ Women are always rather 


shy about their feelings, but thou must come 
again, and then we shall doubtless be able to 
settle everything. Take heart, Josiah ; Doro- 
thy is her father’s child, and where she says 
she likes, doubtless she means to love.” 

CHAPTER VIII. — LIKING AND LOVING. 

The next morning Josiah left King’s-heart. 
Patience and Dorothy stood with him in the 
garden waiting for Nathaniel, who ftas to ac- 
company him as far as Plymouth. 

“ Now thou hast found thy way here,” said 
Patience, “ thou must come again ; we shall 
always be glad to see thee.” 

Josiah gave her a grateful look for this 
welcome invitation. 

“ I shall be only too ready to come,” he 
replied. “ I am so sorry to leave. I never 
enjoyed a week so much in all my life — thou 
hast been so good to me.” 

And then he turned to Dorothy; but 
though he wished to tell her how sorry he 
was to leave her, and how he should long to 
see her again, he found it was impossible. 
Every time he tried to speak, his heart 
seemed to leap into his throat and choke the 
words. No such inconvenience, however, 
oppressed Dorothy, who looked smilingly 
into his face as she said, — 

“ Oh, yes ; thou must come in the summer, 
and then we can go to the Mew Stone and 
to Cothele.” 

But Josiah was not heeding a word she 
said. He was entirely occupied with won- 
dering whether he might give her a kiss when 
he said farewell. She was in a way engaged 
to him, at least he had her father’s consent, 
and she had promised to try and care for him, 
and he thought he would ; but at that 
moment Nathaniel appeared, calling out to 
him, — . 

“Come, Josiah, we’ve no time to spare; 
say farewell and jump in.” 

He thought he had better not venture any- 
thing of the sort; so he shook hands with 
Patience, turned again to Dorothy, changed 
his mind, and made such a sudden dash 
towards her that she only seemed to get a 
knock on her nose. Before she recovered 
from her surprise, Josiah was seated in the 
carriage, too excited, and his face too red, 
to see Dorothy’s look of bewildered astonish 

ment. But as they drove off, the true purport 
of this sudden movement dawned upon her, 
and, unchecked by her mother’s reproving 

look, she burst into a fit of laughter. 

Patience was very anxious to have a serious 

conversation with her daughter on the sub- 
ject of this proposed engagement with Josiah. 


33 


DOROTHY FOX. 


She liked him, and believed he had a great 
deal ot goodness in his nature ; but she saw 
that he was no more fitted for a husband for 
Dorothy than Mark or Samuel their shopmen. 
Dorothy, in spite of the quiet sober way in 
which she had been brought up, possessed a 
vivid imagination, a quick sense of the ridicu- 
lous, and such warm feelings as were certain 
to influence her life and mould her character. 
There was much about her that Josiah, in 
spite of all the love he might feel for her, would 
never understand. As a child, obstinacy had 
been her greatest fault. This defect time 
and training had turned into firmness. Seldom 
shown, because few opportunities presented 
themselves for its display, but lying dormant 
in the young girl’s heart, was a will indomit- 
able as her father’s, a tenacity of purpose 
which, after she had once taken a resolution, 
would overcome most obstacles. 

Patience had thoroughly studied her 
daughter’s character, and felt convinced that 
to allow such a nature to ignorantly take any 
irretrievable step in life would be a failure in 
parental duty. She therefore determined that 
after speaking to Dorothy she would tell her 
husband of the thoughts which troubled her, 
and beg him to let their child go on a visit 
to her sister, and thus see a little more of 
society than their limited circle afforded. 

The morning passed without Dorothy 
making any comment on Josiah or his visit. 
After luncheon, the mother and daughter sat 
down together with their work, each one 
silent and apparently occupied with her 
own thoughts ; at last Dorothy said, — 

“ Mother, wert thou ever in love ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Patience. 

“ Then tell me what it is like.” 

Before Patience attempted to answer Do- 
rothy’s question, she sat for some minutes 
communing with herself. 

“ Dorothy,” she said at length, “ thou hast 
asked a very puzzling question, and one that 
I shall find it difficult to answer to my own 
satisfaction, for love takes such various shapes 
in various natures, that by our own heart we 
can never truly judge the hearts of others. 
But first thou must be open with me, and tell 
me what makes thee ask this question.” 

Dorothy’s colour came, as with a slight 
hesitation she answered, — 

“ I think — that is, I know — that father and 
thou have always wished me to like Josiah 
Crewdson ; and now that I have seen him, 
and know him better, I do like him, apd think 
him very kind and worthy, but — surely, 
mother, something more than liking is needed 
to make people happy?” 


“ Indeed, yes, my child, and that is what I 
wish to explain to thee. Love is apart from 
all this ; it is the charm which makes us 
tender to failings, not blind to them. Every 
merit we see in those we love we rejoice 
over. Love is something so powerful, deep, 
and binding, that, though it is impossible to 
define it, it is known to be love the moment it 
is felt.” 

“ But does all this come at once, mother ?” 

“No; I think in most cases it does not, 
but I am speaking of what in some degree 
thou should experience before thy consent is 
given to be the wife of any man. Doubtless, 
love often grows, but I think when I was 
thy age I could have felt tolerably certain 
who might excite such feelings within me, 
and who never would.” - 

Dorothy’s face crimsoned. The thought 
flashed across her, supposing Charles Vers- 
choyle had been Josiah Crewdson, would 
she have needed to ask these questions ? Not 
that Dorothy was one atom in love with the 
stranger who had come among them so unex- 
pectedly, and whom she most probably would 
never see again, but he satisfied her imagina- 
tion, and Josiah did not. 

“ Mother,” she said abruptly, “ dost thou 
think I shall ever love Josiah Crewdson ?” 

“ That is hardly a fair question,” answered 
Patience, not wishing to give a straightfor- 
ward No, which would have been her real 
opinion. “ I see nothing about Josiah to 
prevent a woman caring for him ; he is very 
good-tempered and estimable, and his little 
awkwardnesses result only from shyness, — he 
would very soon overcome them.” 

“ But I do wish he was not so fat, and 
short, and funny-looking.” 

“ We must not fall into the habit of being 
caught by externals,” said Patience. “ It is 
only natural, dear, that thou should admire 
good looks ; but thou wilt never care less, I 
trust, for people who have not that gift. I 
have been wanting to speak to thee before I 
asked thy father’s permission for thee to go 
on a visit to Grace. I think after thou hast 
mixed a little more in the world thou wilt 
know thyself better.” 

Dorothy was delighted at the idea ; her 
only fear was that her father might not con- 
sent to her going to a sister whose views 
were opposed to many of their own. But 
Patience undertook to speak to him first, and 
to tell him her wishes, and the reasons she 
had for believing that they would be acting 
consistently in allowing Dorothy to accept 
Grace’s invitation. 

That night, after reading was over, and 


DOROTHY FOX. 


39 


when the husband and wife were left alone, 
Patience commenced her task, which at the 
outset Nathaniel listened to very impatiently. 
Josiah, he said, was a very worthy young 
man ; and if he did not speak every time he 
got an opportunity, he never spoke when he 
might better have held his tongue. For his 
part he did not see what more they could 
want for their daughter than an excellent 
husband, with a good fortune and a flourish- 
ing business. 

“ But,” said Patience, “ that is all very 
well if she cared for the man.” 

“Now that is one of thy woman’s fancies 
and arguments, Patience,” replied Nathaniel. 
“ Leave her alone and she will care for the 
man. What other man can she care for? 
Who does she see unless it is Andrew Dy- 
mond or Jabez Smith? and compared with 
them Josiah has the graces of a posture- 
master. When they are once married they 
will get on very well ; as I have often told 
thee, love will come. Still, I have no wish 
to force the child into a marriage which is 
distasteful to her; though, should she decide 
against becoming the wife of Josiah Crewd- 
son, she would crush one of the wishes 
nearest my heart.” 

“ But thou would sacrifice thy wish, dear, 
if its accomplishment failed to give Dorothy 
happiness ?” 

Nathaniel gave a vexed movement, which 
Patience noticed, and drawing her chair 
nearer to her husband, she laid her hand on 
his, saying, “ Wilt thou listen to me for a 
few minutes ?” 

Nathaniel nodded assent. 

“ Well then, first, be assured that I like 
Josiah, and that I should be perfectly con- 
tented to see Dorothy his wife, but I do not 
consider he is calculated to make her happy ; 
and she has had so little opportunity of com- 
paring him with others, that we are not acting 
up to our duty if we allow her to make a 
blind choice. There might come a time 
when her heart would reproach us. Though 
Grace has many views that we condemn, yet 
we know that Dorothy may be safely trusted 
to her care, without any of her principles 
being tampered with. Then why not let her 
go on a visit to Grace, with permission to 
mix in their home circle, and in any amuse- 
ment which she feels we should not forbid?” 

“ And when she returns home, how then ?” 
asked Nathaniel. “ Will she not be discon- 
tented ?” 

“No, I can answer for that ; and if then 
she makes no objection to Josiah, be assured, 
Nathaniel, I shall raise none.” 


“ I do not see the necessity,” said Na 
thaniel ; “ nevertheless, I will think the mat- 
ter over, and by to-morrow, perhaps, give 
thee my decision.” 

The next morning he asked Dorothy to 
walk round the garden with him, and after a 
time he said, — 

“ Well, Dorothy, and what dost thou think 
of Josiah Crewdson ?” 

“ I like him ; he is exceedingly good, well- 
meaning, and worthy.” 

“Very excellent qualities in a husband, 
Dorothy.” 

“ Yes, father — but,” she added as the 
colour mounted to her cheeks, “ I should 
want to know him much better before that.” 

“ Certainly, child ; certainly. Still thou 
hast no positive distaste to him?” 

“No, on the contrary, I think very highly 
of him.” 

“ Yet thy mother tells me thou hast a wish 
to spend some time with Grace?” 

“Yes,” replied Dorothy; “but I do not 
know that that has much to do with Josiah, 
for I wished it quite as much before I saw 
him.” 

“Then thou hast my permission to go,” 
said Nathaniel, greatly relieved by this last 
remark of his daughter. “ I know I can 
trust thee to upiiold thy principles in all thy 
actions, not entering into anything which thy 
conscience does not approve as consistent. 
From Fryston thou must go on to see Aunt 
Abigail, and while thou art so near, what 
dost thou say to accepting this invitation 
from the Crewdsons?” 

“ If it will not be staying away too long 
from thee and mother, I should like it,” said 
Dorothy, her face beaming with pleasurable 
anticipation. 

“ No,” replied her father; “we must learn 
little by little to try and do without thee ; 
no easy task when the time comes,” he 
added, patting her head lovingly. 

The tears sprang to the girl’s eyes as she 
exclaimed — 

“ Oh, father, I never want to leave thee ! 
I do not care to go now. Let me stay at 
home.” 

“ No, my child. I am very glad, as things 
seem to be turning out, that thou art going. 

I shall write to Grace, and tell her thy mother 
will take thee ; and, as I have some business 
in London the week after next, I will go and 
bring her home.” 

During the next few days nothing was 
thought of but the preparations necessary for 
their journey. At last the morning for starting 
arrived, and Nathaniel accompanied them to 


4 o 


DOROTHY FOX. 


the station. Grace was to meet them at 
Paddington, so that they should not have 
any trouble ; for to Patience a journey alone 
was an undertaking. 

As they stood waiting for the train to come 
up, Nathaniel could not help noticing the 
attention which Dorothy attracted. She was 
looking all the more beautiful from the ex- 
citement, which made her eyes sparkle and 
her colour brighten more than usual. Her fair 
youthfulness seemed to strike Nathaniel afresh, 
and he anxiously thought to himself whether 
he was right in letting her go from him. What 
if she should attract the attention of some 
vicious worldling, whose fair words and spe- 
cious reasoning might entangle her young 
fancy ! And this fear made him walk to the 
old house opposite the Guildhall with a more 
measured step and graver face than usual ; 
and during the whole of the day he con- 
tinually said to himself, “ I fear I have not 
acted wisely in letting her go.” 


CHAPTER IX. — AT DYNE COURT. 

“ Dyne,” says an old chronicler, “ was the 
king’s demesne at the Conquest, the chief 
house whereof adjoined the abbey (now de- 
molished), and in times past hath been notable 
for that Hieretha, canonized a saint, was here 
born ; esteemed to be of such sanctity, that 
you may read of many miracles ascribed to 
her holiness, in his book who penned her 
life. This dwelling-place of Dyne Court and 
lands, which the family of Montague enjoyed, 
from the time of King Henry I. even unto 
King Henry VII.’s days, 

Chich esters by the marriage 
sole daughter of the house, with Geoffrey 
Chichester, who took the name of Dyne- 
court, by which honourable name this family 
hath ever since been known.” 

Known at the Court of the virgin queen 
as grave and reliable advisers ; known to 
have laid down life and lands for the martyr 
Charles ; known at his son’s gay revels as 
roistering gallants ; known as the friends of 
each wanderer of the house of Stuart ; known 
as men who were eyed with suspicion by 
the house of Hanover, until, their fortune 
gone, and their lands mortgaged, they died 
out of royal memories, — the last three gene- 
rations of Dynecourts had been known only 


to look into his condition, and had sold the 
old place which he could not keep from falling 
into ruin. He had paid off the debts still 
clinging round it, and had acknowledged 
himself all but beggared, and forced to earn 
his own living. 

So the descendant of all the Dynecourts — 
the friends of kings and boon companions of 
princes, successful lovers of court beauties, 
and husbands of titled dames — now toiled in 
the law courts as a barrister ; while Mr. 
Richard Ford, whose father had been a 
porter, and he himself an errand-boy, was the 
owner of the fair lands of Dyne Court. When 
Richard Ford was yet a boy in a fustian suit, 
with a heavy basket on his arm, he never 
passed Temple Bar, or the Tower, or any old 
building, without being compelled to stop and 
gaze upon it. Though he knew not why, his 
gazing brought him pleasure ; and as he ad- 
vanced in age and social position, he became 
a humble collector of curiosities, and when 
he grew rich he found he possessed an anti- 
quarian taste. His search for a seat had 
therefore been guided by this dilettanteism : 
the house must have a history, its surround- 
ings must have an interest. Directly Dyne 
Court was in the market he went down 
to it. He longed to call the place his own 
from the moment he saw the quaint village 
with the old-fashioned inn — “ The Swan with 
Three Necks,” stretching its sign across the 
street. His desire was only increased by the 
sight of “ the fair church and its stately tower,” 
by the rough stone bridge, before the build- 
came unto the ing of which “ the breadth and roughness of 
of Margaret, | the river was such as it put many lives in 
jeopardy, until the pious Dynecourt — Fulk 
Dynecourt — was admonished by a vision to 
set on the foundation of a bridge near a rock 
which he should find rolled from the higher 
grounds upon the strand, and in the morning 
he found a rock there fixed, which incited him 
to set forwards so charitable a work and build 
the bridge now to be seen.” And when, after 
crossing the bridge, Mr. Ford stood in front of 
the large iron gates, and saw, half-way up the 
avenue, the Gothic arch (trace of the abbey 
which once stood on that spot), he firmly 
determined that if money could do it, he 
would be master of Dyne Court. 

And now he was master of it. Ever since 


to those who dwelt near as men who had that time, Dyne had been noisy with labourers 
nothing to bequeath but their ancient name 
and ruined house. These had descended somt 
few years before to one who, in his turn, was 
known to the neighbourhood as that Dyne- 
court who, sick of trying to stave oft' the 
evil day, had summoned up courage enough 


and tradesmen, putting the whole place in 
thorough repair, but without altering its ex- 
terior. Mr. Ford himself vigilantly watched 
over the work. The interior arrangements 
of furnishing and decorating he committed 
to the hands of “a great London autho- 


DOROTHY FOX. 


rity and at the present time all who had 
seen it declared everything to be perfect. It 
took one a long time to get conversant with 
all the traditions and histories of “ the Court 
lands ;” and when Mr. Ford, with natural 
pride of heart, showed any guests over them, 
he played a very secondary part to Roger 
Cross, who regarded his office of head gar- 
dener as one of hereditary distinction, it 
having been (as he informed them) in his 
family for two hundred years. Roger did 
not attempt to conceal his feelings at the 
bitter change which had overtaken the for- 
tunes of his old masters ; and after pointing 
out the spot where the duel took place, in 
which Charteray Dynecourt fell by his friend 
the Earl of Hereford’s hand, or the gate which 
had never been opened since Maud Dyne- 
court shamed the family by taking flight 
through it with one of “ Oliver’s Lords,” for- 
saking her denounced Cavalier lover, he 
would shrug his shoulders and shake his head, 
saying — 

“ But times is changed with us since then, 
ladies and gentlemen.” 

Then there was the Well, where all true 
lovers went to swear their constancy and 
pledge each other in the water, which secured 
them the good-will of St. Hieretha. There was 
many an avenue, too, where belles in sacques 
and hoops and farthingales — whose names 
are still famous — walked and coquetted with 
beaux in ruffles, powdered wigs, and rapiers, 
who lived and died for the upholding of 
their country and its flaws. 

Mr. Richard Ford took great pains to 
keep everything in the best possible order ; 
and so tender was he over these footprints 
of days gone by, that it grieved him to see 
even the branch of an old tree removed, 
or a dead shrub replaced ; and although 
his steps, as he slowly trod the Dyne Court 
avenues, did not fall where his ancestors 
had trodden before him, he reverenced the 
associations of a past age, and regarded 
much of his newly-bought property as hal- 
lowed ground. 

When, therefore, the neighbouring families, 
in accordance with the expressed wish of Mr. 
Dynecourt, called' on the new comer, they 
decided that- as he could never be a Dyne- 
couit, they were very glad to see him what 
he was — simple, unpretentious, valuing things 
which even all his money could not buy for 
him, and naturally possessed of tastes and 
feelings which, though he was guilty of an 
occasional solecism, or a faulty H, prevented 
him from being called vulgar. His great 
wealth had introduced him to many fashion- 


4 1 


able circles, and in them he was the more wel- 
come, because it was understood that he was 
looking out for some fair maiden whom he 
might make mistress of his newly-gained pos- 
sessions. Many a girl, much younger and 
with far less excuse than Audrey Verschoyle, 
smiled upon him, and greeted him with sweet 
words, while he talked to them after a very 
staid fatherly fashion, and was so very little 
affected, apparently, by their solicitude, that 
it was not to be wondered at that Lady Laura 
should regard with triumph the marked at- 
tention which, from their first introduction, 
he had bestowed upon her daughter. 

The handsome carriage was sent to the 
station for the Verschoyles, and they drove up 
the avenue to find the master standing at the 
entrance of the house. He gave Audrey 
a most cordial welcome, and the mother’s 
heart swelled with pride as she thought how 
well her child would fill the position to which 
she saw that she was destined. 

From the moment they entered the house, 
Mr. Ford, by his manner, showed that 
Audrey was the guest he most delighted to 
honour. When he displayed the beauties of 
the house, he made her his especial charge, 
seeming well satisfied when she expressed 
pleasure ; and he made a note of any altera- 
tion she suggested. 

The party staying in the house was small, 
and consisted of a Mr. and Mrs. Jekyi Finch, 
together with their daughter, and a cousin to 
whom she was engaged ; General Trefusis, 
an old Indian officer, and his sister ; and 
Mrs. Winterton and her niece, Miss Selina 
Bir^ham. They had all met before, and the 
sayings and doings of their mutual acquaint- 
ances possessed for ekch a special interest. 
The arrival of the Verschoyles was hailed 
with general satisfaction ; Lady Laura was 
always so agreeable, Miss Verschoyle so 
clever, and the son was quite a hero, and so 
good-looking. Mr. Ford expressed himsell 
delighted to see Captain Verschoyle, and 
added, “We must invite some nice young 
lady to look after him.” Quick-sighted Lady 
Laura decided at once that this remark was 
intended to convey that Miss Bingham was 
reserved for somebody else. But who could 
it be ? Perhaps the old man himself might be 
coveting her money — those rich people were 
sometimes so grasping. So she at once 
answered, — 

“ My dear Mr. Ford, you are too thought- 
ful ; but my son’s health being still very deli- 
cate, I fear he has the bad taste to prefer the 
attentions of his mother to those of the most 
charming young lady in England where any 


42 


DOROTHY FOX. 


reciprocity of interest would be expected. 
No, no, you must leave my son to me.” 

Lady Laura took great pains to repeat 
this offer of Mr. Ford’s to the guests indivi- 
dually, varying the remarks according to the 
condition of the hearer. She told Miss 
Bingham that her son never paid any girl the 
slightest attention beyond common polite- 
ness. 

“ He declares he shall never fall in love 
with any one ; but you know, my dear, he’s 
been spoilt — that’s the truth of the matter. 
Men never care for women who wear their 
hearts upon their sleeve.” 

Whereupon Captain Verschoyle’s naturally 
winning manner was regarded by the heiress 
as a personal compliment, and every courtesy 
he showed her seemed of double value when 
it came from a man unaccustomed to be gene- 
rally gracious. The days passed very idly 
anjd pleasantly. They chatted and gossiped 
together, they lingered over breakfasts and 
luncheons, they strolled in couples over the 
grounds, Audrey being always the compa- 
nion of their host, who took sedate pleasure 
in showing his knowledge of Roman anti- 
quities, and ‘the history of abbeys and 
monasteries. She, in her turn, listened com- 
placently, and would intersperse his rather 
heavy facts with old traditions, legends, and 
anecdotes of the places with which these 
archaic memories were connected. These 
talks were not altogether uncongenial, and 
Audrey remembered she had often felt far 
more bored by the conversation of other 
eligible but younger “ partis ” than she did 
after an hour’s tete-a-teie with Mr. Richard 
Ford. Though she had not been at Dyne 
Court a week, the servants looked upon her 
as their probable future mistress, and most 
eyes followed, with curious gaze, the couple 
as they walked together — Audrey’s tall, beau- 
tiful figure gaining height from her sweeping 
dress, and her dark hair arranged so as to 
display to the best advantage her well-formed 
head, which she had to bend when she ad- 
dressed her companion. 

At the close of one of these long summer 
days, Audrey had been singing for the old 
man. She had never reckoned singing 
amongst her accomplishments ; and if asked 
to sing would say that she could not. But 
Mr. Ford thought it the sweetest voice he 
had ever heard, and was wonderfully stirred 
by the few well-chosen words (for she always 
looked to the words more than the music) 
rather spoken than sung. They were sitting 
in the gloaming, apart from the rest of the 
party, who were amusing themselves inde- 


pendently of the singer. Miss Verschoyle 
did not seek to disguise that she was solely 
intent on giving pleasure to the master of the 
house. Mr. Ford had asked her for old- 
fashioned songs, and she had given him 
several ; her companion hardly thanking her 
in words, yet quietly showing her how he 
enjoyed the treat. At length, without a 
thought, she commenced to sing “ Auld 
Robin Gray.” 

“ Such a mistake ! ” Lady Laura afterwards 
observed ; but at the time she only said 
immediately it was concluded, “ My dear 
Audrey, pray do not sing any more of those 
doleful ditties.” But Audrey did not reply. 
She rose and shut the piano softly, while Mr. 
Ford said, huskily, “ Thank you, my dear, 
it is twenty years since last I heard that 
song.” Then she said to him, “Will you 
walk round the terrace with me ? I want to 
see who the man was standing outside the 
window listening to me.” 

They walked round, but could see no one. 

“ It was your fancy, I think,” said Mr. 
Ford. 

“ No, it was not,” replied Audrey. 

“Then, perhaps, it was one of the ser- 
vants.” 

Audrey did not feel inclined to say that 
she knew it was not a servant, for it little 
mattered. So they spoke of other things, 
and joined General Trefusis, Miss Bingham, 
and Captain Verschoyle in a short stroll. 
As they were entering the house again a 
servant came up and said, “ Mr. Dynecourt 
has arrived, sir.” 

“Where is he?” asked Mr. Ford. “Will 
you excuse me, Miss Verschoyle?” and he 
hurried away. 

Captain Verschoyle followed his sister into 
her room that evening, with the evident 
intention, as she said, of having a gossip. So 
she might just as well resign herself and 
dismiss Marshall at the onset, “ to ‘ improve 
the shining hours,’ meaning the moonlight, 
with the chief butler, or baker, or whoever 
reigns at present in your fickle bosom.” 

“ The butler, Miss Audrey ! Well, I never ; 
what will you make me out next ? Why, 
he’s nearly seventy ! ” 

“ And a very suitable age for you,” replied 
her mistress, laughing. 

“No such thing, Marshall,” exclaimed 
Captain Verschoyle; “you are a great deal 
too good-looking to become a nurse yet ; 
besides, what would that Devonshire land- 
lady’s sailor son say?” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Marshall; “you 
know everybody doesn’t care about setting 


DOROTHY FOX. 


43 


the Prayer-book commandment— that you 
mustn’t marry your grandfather — at defiance,” 
and Marshall demurely bade them “ Good 
night.” 

“ That was a sly hit at you, Audrey.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so; Marshall has given 
me several hints as to the interest shown in 
the servants’ hall regarding their master’s 
wooing. By the way, what do you think of 
your brother-in-law elect ?” 

“Brother-in-law elect!” echoed Captain 
Verschoyle; “why, you have not accepted 
him, have you?” 

“ No ; because he has not yet done me the 
honour to offer me his hand, and — shall we 
say ? — heart ; but, when that glory is laid at 
my feet, I intend to invest myself as quickly 
as possible with all the insignia of office 
which may belong to the dignity of Mrs. 
Richard Ford.” 

“ Be serious, Audrey. Do you think the 
man means to ask you to be his wife?” 

“No; but the master of Dyne Court in- 
tends asking me to be the mistress, and I 
intend accepting. Don’t look so grave, 
Charley ; I have tried for matrimonial prizes 
far more distasteful than this man is to me, 
notwithstanding that he will call me ‘Ordrey’ 
and sometimes hope I am ‘ ’appy.’ ” 

“ But surely you must shrink from marry- 
ing him. Mark you, I am not speaking 
against the man, for I feel sure he is good at 
heart, and there is much to admire in the 
good sense which makes him above being 
ashamed that he has risen in life. But, 
Audrey, his age, his appearance, — oh ! it 
seems such a dreadful sacrifice, — and for 
what ?” 

“ For what,” she answered ; “ for all I 
hold dear. I dream of the entertainments 
I shall give, the people I shall gather round 
me here, the dress, the jewels, the carriages, 
the thousand and one delicious extravagances 
I may commit when I have money at my 
command. We don’t look at the value of the 
coin, we esteem it for what it will bring us. 
So with Mr. Ford, if I regarded him standing 
on his own personal merits, 1 should shudder 
to be obliged to spend my life with an elderly 
man who has long passed all his romance, 
and in the days when he did possess it, would 
have perhaps bestowed it upon a — cook or 
serving-maid. No, no, Mr. Richard Ford indi- 
vidually is ignored, and is only regarded by 
me as the medium by which I shall attain all 
I have ever desired and longed for.” 

“ But, Audrey, don’t tell me your heart has 
never pictured any other life than one of 
endless irivolity and company ? ” 


“ Marry for love !” she said, scornfully ; 
“ love is very well in a novel on a rainy day, 
but how does it stand m reality ?” 

“Audrey,” said Captain Verschoyle, “give 
up all idea of this marriage ; you may yet 
meet with some one to inspire a different 
feeling.” 

“ Never now : my heart is choked up with 
other gods ; love could not take root in such 
a stony soil ; the first little storm would tear 
it up to wither and die. Moreover, I must 
say this is rather cool of you to take me to 
task for my adoration of Mammon, when you 
are at this very moment paying homage at the 
same shrine. Now then, it is my turn to 
cross-question. Do you really intend pro- 
posing to Miss Bingham ? ” 

“ That is a question I have asked myself 
several times, and hitherto I have been unable 
to give any answer. She is a very nice girl, 
and I might become very fond of her, but 1 
should never be in love with her.” 

“ I think she would not say No to being 
Mrs. Verschoyle,” said Audrey. 

“ I am not at all sure of that,” replied her 
brother, “ but this I am sure of, that she will 
not break her heart if she is *not asked, for 
with all her timid yea-nayishness, she has a 
very decided preference for herself, and who- 
ever she marries will never be anything but 
prince consort in her heart. Yet a man might 
do worse, and there is no reason why he 
should not love her for herself, for she is 
rather pretty and tolerably accomplished.” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Audrey, “that is her 
fault ; you feel that you must always qualify 
everything you say of her, and consequently 
she has no positive character.” 

“ Very unlike my sister there,” laughed 
Captain Verschoyle. 

“ Oh ! I know I like to have my own way, 
and I daresay if I had fallen in love it would 
have been with some weak amiable creature, 
who deferred to me in all things, and was 
entirely guided by my opinion. And yet I 
detest men of that kind.” 

“ Ah ! ” said her brother, “ my ideal is a 
woman who has an opinion, and yet is ready 
to follow out that of the man she loves ; a 
woman like our sweet Quaker friend, who 
freely gave her ideas, and then quietly added 
‘ But my husband’s wish is different ;’ and love 
had made that law so strong that it never 
entered her mind to resist it. Do you know, 
I often think of her.” 

“ So do I,” said Audrey. “ That afternoon 
seemed to open up a fresh vista of life to me ; 
the spirit of peace took possession of me then. 
I shall never forget the scene — the mother 


44 


DOROTHY FOX. 


and daughter — I can recall the very sound of 
their voices. But there goes twelve o’clock ; 
my dear Charley, be off, or I shall look like a 
wraith to-morrow.” 

Captain Verschoyle rose to bid her good 
night, saying — 

“You will think over what we have been 
talking about ? Don’t marry this man if you 
feel you may some day repent it. Money 
cannot bring everything, Audrey.” 

She laughingly shook her head in dis- 
sent, and without replying to his question, 
said, — 

“ Oh ! by the way, did you hear who Mr. 
Dynecourt is ? ” 

“ No,” answered her brother. “What about 
him ?” 

“ I know nothing about him, only a servant 
told Mr. Ford that Mr. Dynecourt had arrived, 
and he hurried off to see him, and I left the 
drawing-room before he returned.” 

“ Dynecourt ? ” said Captain Verschoyle ; 
“ that must be one of the family to whom the 
place belonged.” 

“ Perhaps so ; I never heard anything but 
that it had belonged to a very old family who 
had lost their money. Mr. Ford was once 
about to give me their history, but something 
prevented him. Now if he should prove 
young, and good-looking, and a rival to Cap- 
tain Verschoyle? But don’t despair; should 
the worst come, call me to the rescue, and 
I’ll measure swords with the interloper, and as 
it would be perhaps my last passage of arms, 
it should be successful, and insure victory.” 

“ Ah, well,” said her brother, “ as I do not 
yet know whether I wish to be the victor I 
shall not engage your services. Good night. 
Think over what we have been talking about.” 

“ Yes, I promise.” 

And she kept her promise. She said to 
herself that she would look at it on every side, 


and on every side the advantage of marrying 
Mr. Ford showed itself. She felt certain that, 
with the help of some of her relations, who 
held a good place in the fashionable world, 
she could introduce her husband into it, 
and once there she knew she should need 
no help to keep her place. No one under- 
stood expending a large income better than 
Audrey ; and her reflections were often for- 
gotten in the pictures her fancy presented, of 
some wonderful fete or entertainment, where 
she would display her taste, and make herself 
the envy of people who had often offended 
her by their indifference or their patronage. 
Yes, she would accept Mr. Ford gladly ; she 
felt almost certain he would propose to her, 
though not quite so soon as Charley imagined. 
“ I daresay he will defer it until almost the 
last day, which would be just what I should 
like ; and then I shall settle the matter, go 
to town, and prepare my trousseau , and we 
need not meet again until a day or two be- 
fore the — ,” here she sat down pausing before 
the word — “ wedding.” Her hands lay idly 
in her lap, her wide-open eyes had that look 
which tells of blindness to external objects ; 
a slight trembling of the mouth now and 
then showed that she was thinking deeply, 
seriously. The clock striking one broke in 
on her reverie, and she gave a short, quick 
sigh as the words seemed to rise to her 
lips, her tongue almost giving sound to 
the thought — “ Whatever comes, I trust I 
shall never forget that my duty is to be very 
kind to the old man.” 

And Audrey was soon in dreamland ; and 
entertainments, and balls, and weddings, and 
funerals, all mixed themselves together in her 
mind, until Marshall’s voice awoke her, tell- 
ing her that it was past eight o’clock, and 
that there was a fresh visitor to dress for that 
morning. 





DOROTHY FOX. 


45 


T IV. 


CHAPTER X. — AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 



1 ' m&v 


ISS VERS- 
CHOYLE 
did not 
make her 
appearance 
* n the 
breakfast- 
room next 
morning 
until nearly 
ten o’clock. 
Most of the 
party had 
already left, 
and the re- 
in ain d er 
were about 
to follow 
their ex- 
ample. Mr. 
Ford was 


W' 

still sitting at the table, in order, as it seemed, 
to converse with his newly-arrived guest, who 
had only just commenced breakfast. As 
Audrey entered the room, Mr. Ford advanced 
to meet her, and after the usual salutations, 
led her to the table, saying, — 

“ Miss Yerschoyle, you must allow me to 
introduce Mr. Dynecourt to you, a gentle- 
map to whom I feel very grateful for giving 
me the pleasure of his company for a short 
time.” 

Good Richard Ford uttered these words 
nervously, fearing that his speech might not 
convey so much honour as he wished it to 
do. Gladly would he have sunk into tem- 
porary insignificance, if Mr. Dynecourt would 
have consented to consider that he was still 
master in his old home. Geoffrey Dynecourt 
had shrunk from paying this visit: but his 
voluntary banishment had so visibly pained 
the new owner, that he determined, in grati- 
tude for the kindness and consideration Mr. 
Ford had shown him, to overcome this feel- 
ing. It was a trial to go as guest where he 
had lived as master, but it was only one of 
many, and he began to take rather a pride 
in conquering his feelings, and forgetting that 
he had ever been anything but what he now 
was — Geoffrey Dynecourt, barrister of the 
Inner Temple. 

Miss Verschoyle acknowledged the pleasure 
it gave her to meet Mr. Dynecourt, who rose, 


bowed, and gave her a chair. Then as 
both looked up to take a closer inspection 
of each other, their eyes met, and Audrey 
knew that it was he who had stood listening 
to her while singing. 

“ I am fortunate,” she said, “ in finding a 
companion, for generally at breakfast I have 
the full benefit of my own society.” 

“Why,” replied Mr. Dynecourt, “do you 
so dislike early rising?” 

“ Oh ! I detest it ; the family morning 
meal, when all are assembled at eight or nine 
o’clock, is a remnant of barbarism, invented 
doubtless to promote and keep alive discord. 
Who could feel amiable at that hour?” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Dynecourt, 
laughing, “ I was up at six this morning, and 
I felt quite as fond of mankind then as I do 
now.” 

“ Oh ! but not of womankind,” put in Mr. 
Ford ; “for then, my dear sir, you had not 
seen Miss Verschoyle.” 

“ Mr. Ford is so charmingly old-fashioned,” 
said Audrey, smiling, “that he has not for- 
gotten that the most effectual way of making 
a woman good-tempered, is to pay her a 
compliment.” 

“Do you really think, Miss Verschoyle,” 
asked Mr. Dynecourt, “ that ladies set so 
much value on flattery or compliments?” 

“ Speaking from what I hear most people 
say, I should most certainly say no ; speaking 
from personal experience, most decidedly yes. 
I delight in a compliment, and can comfort- 
ably digest a very tolerable quantity of whole- 
some flattery. I often smile, as you are 
doin’g now, at this weakness, but ‘ it is our 
nature to,’ and we cannot help feeling very 
kindly towards a man who delicately shows 
us our superiority. But of course it must 
be managed skilfully. When it is so, I may 
know quite well that it is not true; yet I 
like to hear it, and in a way believe it.” 

Mr. Dynecourt looked at her steadily. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, “ I know you are pity- 
ing my weakness.” 

“No indeed, I was thinking what an un- 
usual amount of truthfulness you have.” 
j “Are you trying my powers of credulity?” 
she asked, somewhat scornfully, “ because 
you have already succeeded in overstepping 
the boundary, and stumbled on a piece of 
flattery which I can not swallow.” 

“ Have I ?” he answered ; “ it was quite un- 


4 6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


intentional. I never pay compliments, that 
is not my forte.” 

At this point Miss Bingham came into the 
room, saying that they had decided upon a 
charming plan. They were to ramble through 
the Abbey-Woods, taking luncheon with them 
for the “Abbot’s Best,” then they would 
return by “ The Dame's Farm,” get some tea 
there, and drive back again by dinner-time. 

“ That will be charming,” exclaimed Audrey, 
turning to Mr. Dynecourt. 

“ Yes/’ he said, “ I think you have beer 
happy in your arrangements.” 

Miss Bingham hastened off to enter more 
fully into an account of what was to be done : 
Audrey and Mr. Dynecourt seated themselves 
on one of the seats on the terrace, and 
carried on an animated conversation, until 
Marshall came from Lady Laura, to say that 
she wished to speak to Miss Verschoyle. 

Audrey obeyed the summons, deciding 
that she would give herself a treat that day, 
and devote some portion of her company to 
Mr. Dynecourt. “ I fancy I shall like him,” 
she thought, “ or else I shall dislike him, for 
he is one of those people one must have 
decided opinions about ; and mine are, as 
yet, unformed. I think he is good-looking.” 

“ Marshall, don’t you think that gentleman 
I was sitting with — Mr. Dynecourt I mean — 
is very handsome ? ” 

“ Handsome, Miss Audrey, la ! no ; he 
looks to me all one colour — eyes, skin, 
and hair ; and he has such a melancholy, 
haughty sort of look, just like the picture of 
that Lord Howard at Spencer House, as if 
he was saying, £ I’m very miserable, but I 
defy you to pity me.’” 

“ Well, really, he has something Vandykeish 
about him,” returned Miss Verschoyle. “ I 
expect it is that short pointed brown beard 
which gives the expression ; but I think’him 
very good-looking, and I am not sure that 
I shall not end by calling him very hand- 
some.” 

“ You don’t mean it, Miss Audrey ; though 
I must say you have a very peculiar taste. 
You always thought that Adam Gregor was 
good-looking — a poor woebegone fellow. 
Everybody to their liking, of course, but give 
me a nice fresh colour, with good curly hair 
and whiskers, and eyes like sloes, and any- 
body may have the peaky-faced, yellow-haired 
gentlemen for me.” 

“ What ! are you still faithful to that Jack- 
my-FIearty you met at Plymouth?” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know who you mean, 
Miss Audrey, but I suppose if I am going to 
lose my young lady, it’s quite time that I was 


faithful to somebody, and had got somebody 
to be faithful to me.” 

“ Very true, Marshall ; but I am not off your 
hands yet ; and you and I are too old stagers to 
count our chickens before they are hatched.” 

“ Oh ! but, miss, it’s all secure this time ; 
if you will say ‘yes,’ there’ll be nobody to 
gainsay you. I wish I was as sure of being 
comfortably settled, as I am that before this 
time next year, I shall see you mistress here.” 

Miss Verschoyle laughed. “And if so,” 
she said, “ get your sailor friend to leave off 
toiling on the sea, and become a tiller of the 
ground, and we’ll find him a sinecure situation. 
Did you say mamma was in my room ? ” 

“ Yes, miss.” 

Audrey entered, and found Lady Laura 
engaged in pulling out and crimping up the 
frills and lace attached to the costume which 
she and Marshall had agreed that Audrey 
should wear. 

“ I am not going to wear that dress, 
mamma,” she exclaimed, “ I shall wear my 
new blue one.” 

“Why spoil that, dear? You look very 
well in this one, and Mr. Ford, I see, is not 
an impressionable man as regards dress.” 

Audrey did not answer Lady Laura’s re- 
mark. She only said, — 

“ I have made up my mind to wear the blue.” 

Now, under ordinary circumstances this 
would have been a declaration of war in 
words, which would have raged sharply, until 
Audrey had given in, and conceded to her 
mother’s wishes ; but just now Lady Laura 
was wonderfully yielding and amiable towards 
her daughter. So she told Marshall to put 
away the refused dress carefully, and left her 
daughter under the maid’s hands. Miss 
Verschoyle desired that her hair might be re- 
arranged after a fashion she considered par- 
ticularly becoming. Altogether she took such 
an interest in her appearance, that Marshall 
felt quite certain her mistress had something 
“ fresh in her head.” When her toilette was 
finished, and Audrey went into her mother’s 
room for inspection, Lady Laura exclaimed, — 

“ You were quite right, my dear, to decide 
upon the blue. I never saw you looking 
better. Charles, love, come and congratulate 
your sister on her appearance.” 

Captain Verschoyle, who had been sitting 
with Lady Laura, turned round, and lifting 
up his eyebrows to evince his astonishment, 
asked who it was all for. 

“Who is it for?” repeated Lady Laura; 
“ really, Charles ! ” 

“ Well, then, what is it for?” said Captain 
Verschoyle. 


DOROTHY FOX. 


47 


“For your especial benefit, sir,” replied 
Audrey, with a significant nod as she went 
out of the room. 

“Dear girl, how I shall miss her!” said 
Lady Laura pathetically. “ I am sure no 
disinterestedness can equal that of a mother 
in giving up her children.” Then, seeing 
Marshall had gone, she added, confidentially, 

“ My idea is, that Audrey has determined 
that the old gentleman shall propose to-day ; I 
and a very excellent thought it is, for they > 
could not have a more fitting opportunity.” i 
“ Oh, mother ! the idea of her sacrificing 
herself in this way is hateful to me.” 


“ Now, Charles, I beg — I insist — that you 
do not mention such a thing to Audrey ; not 
that I think my daughter would listen to 
such an absurd word as sacrifice, in the case 
of a girl who has not a penny marrying a 
man with ^30,000 a year.” 

“ Come, mother, don’t forget you were 
young yourself,” answered her son. 

“Yes, young and foolish, Charles. Your 
dear father was a charming man, and I am 
sure I idolized him ; but he ought never to 
have married me — I have said so dozens of 
times to him, and he always agreed with me. 
1 love my children too w r ell ever to expose 



Page 54. 


them to such a life of struggle to keep up 
appearances as I have had.” 

“ But,” said Captain Verschoyle, “ do you 
not think you would have been much happier 
if you had accepted your position, acknow- 
ledged yourself unable to compete with your 
wealthy friends, and contented yourself with 
the society of those who valued you for 
yourself?” 

“ And where, I should like to know, would 
you have been had I only studied my own 
ease? Really, Charles, I was unprepared 
for such ingratitude in you, when my one 


aim has been to maintain and keep my posi- 
tion for my children’s sake.” 

“ My dear mother, you know I appreciate 
all your goodness, but I do dislike being 
tolerated and patronised, through accepting 
invitations I can never make any return for.” 

“ Then all I can say is, I am very sorry to 
hear that my son possesses such a plebeian 
spirit of independence. A proper pride, 
which forbids one to make intimates of 
vulgar people, or to associate with persons 
one never meets in society, I can appreciate ; 
but to give up the entree to such houses as 


4 8 


DOROTHY FOX. 


stamp your standing in society, because the 
people don’t make a great fuss about you, or 
be unable to put up with a somewhat rude 
speech from a person who can get you 
invited to most of the places other people 
are dying to be seen at, would be a piece of 
folly which few well-bred persons, I think, 
could understand.” 

Captain Verschoyle smiled as he answered, 

“ Your ladyship lays too much weight on 
aristocratic birth and breeding, forgetting 
that ‘ virtue alone is true nobility.’ ” 

“ Charles, I beg you will not repeat any 
of those horrid radical sayings to me. You 
are really growing exactly like that odious 
old Henry Egerton, who is always preaching 
about equality. I suppose you will be telling 
me next that it is my duty to visit with the 
greengrocer, and to cultivate the society of 
the butcher and baker, with a view to an 
ultimate alliance being formed with some of 
them.” 

“Well, you know,” said her son, slily, 
“ you are giving your consent to one of the 
family marrying a tradesman.” 

“ I have no patience with you, Charles. 
If you have not the' sense to understand 
the difference which a colossal fortune 
makes in the man’s position, I give you 
up. I have never asked, and I have no 
curiosity to know, how Mr. Ford made his 
money. It is enough for me to know that 
he has it, and that society accepts him on 
the same terms. I am quite sure that when 
he is Audrey’s husband they will be in a 
very good set; I shall take care of that. 
Our family know too well what is due to any 
member of it not to lend a helping hand. 
I don’t expect your uncle Spencer, nor Lord 
Towcester, iior any of our aristocratic cousins, 
to make a boon companion of the man, but 
I feel certain that they’ll ask him to their 
large entertainments, and make a point of 
always accepting his invitations to dinner.” 

“ Poor old gentleman !” exclaimed Captain 
Verschoyle, “ he won’t trouble the family 
long ; he’ll soon sink under all the greatness 
thrust upon him. Do you think that if I 
were to honour with my hand some daughter 
of a house gilded but yet defiled by trade, I 
should be able to insure that my wife would 
be jostled by the aristocratic elbows assem- 
bled at Grantley House, and snubbed by the 
patrician mouth of Lady Spencer?” 

“ There can be no occasion lor me to an- 
swer such absurd questions. Besides, I hope 
vour wife will be able to enter society in her 
own right. The Binghams are an old county 
family, and distantly connected with Lord 


Radnor and the Tuftons. I found all that 
out from Mrs. Winterton.” 

“ Oh ! is it decided, then, that Miss Bing- 
ham is to be your future daughter-in-law ?” 

“ Well, it will be your own fault if she is 
not, and I should think you would hardly be 
so blind as to throw such a chance away ; for 
though you keep your looks remarkably well, 
you have certainly lost much of the esprit you 
had some years ago. I wanted to speak to 
you about Miss Bingham, only we have wasted 
all our time over this ridiculous discussion. I 
see now who Mr. Ford was reserving her for.” 

“ And who was that ?” 

“ This Mr. Dynecourt he makes so much 
of. It is not likely he will have a chance 
with you; but still I should redouble my 
attentions, and when all is settled between 
Audrey and Mr. Ford, she can give him a hint 
not to press the young man to prolong his stay.” 

“ I beg you will do nothing of the kind, 
mother, for I can assure you it is not at all 
certain at present that I shall ever wish to 
dispute any one’s claim to the honour of 
being Miss Bingham’s suitor.” 

Lady Laura saw that her son was not now 
inclined to listen favourably to her schemes 
for his marriage, so she wisely resolved to 
hold her tongue. Professing to be suddenly 
amazed at the lateness of the hour, she asked 
him if it was not time that he should join the 
rest of the party, whom she was going to see 
start, for her inclination did not prompt her 
to accompany them. 

Mr. Ford proposed driving to Abbot’s 
Gate, and Audrey volunteered to be his 
charioteer. As they had to go round a long 
distance, they started before the pedestrians. 
The conversation naturally turned upon Mr. 
Dynecourt, and Audrey heard to her great sur- 
prise that he had been the former owner of the 
property. Mr. Ford grew eloquent while 
eulogizing the man who had acted so nobly. 

“ I do not expect you to admire his con- 
duct as I do, Miss Verschoyle, because you 
have not been brought up to look on an 
honest, independent spirit as I have ; but the 
man who possesses that, and sufficient perse- 
verance to battle with the world and to con- 
quer, why it is nineteen to one but he’ll 
succeed. Where should I have been but for 
that? Certainly not sitting beside you, my 
dear young lady,” he added, sobering down, 
lest he might become too confidential in his 
enthusiasm. “ I tell Mr. Dynecourt he’d die 
Lord Chancellor yet. I hate going to law, 
but I should almost snatch an opportunity 
that I might do him a good turn.” 

“ Why,” said Audrey, “ what is he?” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


49 


“ A barrister, and a very rising one, too. 
He has many influential friends, and every 
sensible man commends his spirit. Some of 
his other friends wished him to wait and get 
a diplomatic something, but he preferred 
doing what he has done, and I honour 
him.” 

“ Poor fellow !” said Audrey, “ what a trial ; 
not only giving the place up, but all the old 
memories and associations ; oh ! I do so feel 
for him.” 

“ So did I, Miss Verschoyle, more than 
I ever did for any one in my life.” 

“ But could nothing be done ? ” said 
Audrey; “was he irretrievably ruined?” 

“ Nothing could be done then; things had 
been going from bad to worse for genera- 
tions ; the former owners had shut their eyes, 
and left to their successors the task of amend- 
ing matters, or of plunging deeper into the 
mire. I cannot explain it to you, but em- 
barrassments hedged him in completely, so 
that notwithstanding the enormous sum I 
paid for the place, Mr. Dynecourt was not 
able to secure more than suffices to bring him 
in ^500 a year. I tell you this, knowing it 
will go no farther.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Audrey, “ it is safe 
with me. I am very glad you have told me.” 

“ I thought when I did so you would ap- 
preciate him,” said Mr. Ford, kindly. 

“ I do, and you too, Mr. Ford ; you have 
a very noble nature.” 

“Thank you, my dear; that is a compliment 
which, coming from you, I value very much.” 

Had Audrey entertained the idea her 
mother had credited her with, and pursued 
her opportunity, assuredly she would then 
have been offered the hand of Richard 
Ford. But she did not wish that the honour 
should be presented to her just yet. So, 
when they reached Abbot’s Gate, and had 
sent the carriage back, she adroitly changed 
the subject by reminding Mr. Ford that he 
had never given her an account of the ruin 
they were going to see at Abbot’s Rest. Once 
launched on his favourite topic, Audrey was 
safe from all love passages, which, to speak 
truth, Mr. Ford was very glad to shirk ; for 
he more often wished his companion was his 
daughter than that she should be his wife. He 
had no desire to marry ; and the only induce- 
ment was, that, with the exception of two or 
three distant cousins, about whom he cared 
nothing, he had nobody to whom he could 
leave his wealth. Though he could always 
gather people round him, yet he was very 
lonely in the midst of them. And then he 
was being constantly told that he ought to 
4 


marry. He had taken a great liking to Audrey ; 
and since she had been his guest his regard 
had grown daily, until he had made up his 
mind that if he did marry, she should be his 
wife. Still he gave a sigh when he thought 
of this, for notwithstanding his sixty years, 
his stout figure, and generally common-place 
appearance, Richard Ford had a seat in his 
heart which death had left vacant ; and it 
seemed to him something like sacrilege to 
a memory to fill that place, even in name. 

CHAPTER XI. — ABBOT’S WALK. 

Abbot’s Walk was a long avenue of beech 
trees, at the end of which was an old ivy- 
covered ruin of what had probably been* a 
votive chapel to some saint. Tradition said 
that the pious abbot, Petrock, had “ raised it 
to that reverend St. German, bishop of Aux- 
erre, whose memorial was so sacred among 
the Britons, that many churches were dedi- 
cated to his memory in this island ;” and the 
good Petrock having gone thither, as was his 
daily wont, to meditate on the saint’s wisdom, 
“ in that he had been one of those who con- 
futed Pelagius’s heresy,” was found by the 
monks seemingly in a deep sleep, from which 
he had never awakened. From that time 
they had named this peaceful retreat “ The 
Abbot’s Rest.” You might have wandered 
many a long mile before so fair and secluded 
a spot would have met your eye. Coming 
immediately out of the rather gloomy walk, 
the little knoll on which the ruin stood looked 
bright without being sunny. Its rich carpet 
of wild thyme was studded with flowers rarely 
found in any other part of the grounds. The 
large stones, lying here and there, were covered 
with moss, and formed supports to thick low 
bushes of roses, which were cut, in order to 
prevent their long branches trailing over the 
ground. On the side opposite the ruin, you 
were separated from Dyne woods by a lazy 
murmuring stream. 

When Audrey and Mr. Ford came suddenly 
to this spot, they both uttered an exclamation 
of surprise, to find the whole party assembled. 
They were all sitting quietly after their walk, 
either silently resting, or conversing in low 
whispers. The first couple Audrey took note 
of was her brother and Miss Bingham. Then 
she looked all round. To her disappointment, 
Mr. Dynecourt was not there. But he might 
have rambled away with the Rector’s daugh- 
ter, so she asked — 

“ Did you call for Miss Coventry ?” 

“We sent for her,” said Miss Bingham, 
“ but she had an engagement.” 

Perhaps he was coming later. 


5 ° 


DOROTHY FOX. 


After a time she said, “ But where is Mr. 
Dynecourt ? 

“He asked me to excuse him early in the 
morning,” returned Mr. Ford. 

“ Yes,” added Miss Trefusis, “ he walked 
to the first gate with us, and pointed out the 
prettiest way, but he said he was unable to 
join us.” 

“We made a bargain together,” said Mr. 
Ford, “ that if he would come here, he should 
be entirely free to do as he liked, and go 
where he liked unquestioned. I daresay he 
has gone off to one of the neighbours : they 
are all anxious to see him.” 

“ There are no people living very near here 
though?” said Audrey. 

“No,” replied Mr. Ford, “but he is an 
excellent walker, and if he chooses to ride or 
drive he can do so.” 

In spite of herself, Audrey was vexed, as 
well as disappointed. She had no wish that 
Mr. Dynecourt should fall in love with her, but 
she wanted him to admire her. Before she 
had heard his history, she had made up her 
mind to devote herself to that purpose during 
the day. This desire had been the cause of 
the especial regard she had that morning dis- 
played for her personal appearance. Since the 
conversation with Mr. Ford, all her sympa- 
thies had been enlisted; and she resolved 
she would delicately pay him every attention. 
He should feel that all this was not from 
pity, but from an appreciation of his cha- 
racter. And now, after all this thought and 
planning oh her part, he was not to be 
present to receive the benefit. She was 
piqued. But after a time she smiled at her 
unreasonable vexation. “ I am forgetting,” 
she thought, “ that I am scarcely on promo- 
tion now. How odd it will be for me to have 
done with scheming ; it will rather diminish 
the zest of going out. I wonder what thorns 
lie on the bed of roses upon which unbounded 
wealth reposes. Not many, I fancy, that 
will penetrate my hardened skin. So adieu 
to my new-fledged fancy, I’ll console myself 
with my Nestor; but, my mood being some- 
what captious, I had better not indulge in 
iete-atctes .” 

The day passed very pleasantly, Audrey 
exerting herself to amuse everybody ; helping 
General Trefusis to compound a delicious 
mystery in the shape of a champagne cup ; 
Washing the salad in the stream ; insist- 
ing on Mr. Ford helping* her to lay the 
table ; then making him sit down and watch 
her, because she feared- he was tired ; and, 
finally, knowing the two old gentlemen had 
walked quite enough, she professed herself 


unable to get farther than Abbot’s Gate. 
General Trefusis and Mr. Ford must, there- 
fore, please drive with her, and they would 
meet the rest of the party at “ The Dame’s 
Farm,” and after tea, again drive home to- 
gether. 

After they had departed, Mrs. Crichett, 
the farmer’s w T ife, declared that if that was 
the lady Mr. Ford was to marry, though he 
had picked the whole world he could not 
have found a nicer. Roger Cross had told 
her all about it, and she was a noble-leatured 
madam. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the good woman, “I 
wish it was one of the old stock she was 
to be bride to ; what a couple the master 
and she would make !” 

While Audrey was dressing for dinner, she 
told her mother how much they had en- 
joyed their day. Though she did not seem 
to have had any formal proposal made to 
her, yet as she had evidently devoted her- 
self to Mr. Ford, Lady Laura was delighted 
to hear her daughter so often unconsciously 
couple their names together. Charles, too, 
seemed to have made up for his dereliction, 
by paying Miss Bingham very pointed atten- 
tions. All was thus going on in a way to 
satisfy her maternal anxiety. As her eyes 
followed Audrey’s graceful figure through the 
room, she said, with pride, to Marshall — 

“ Miss Audrey is very elegant, Marshall. * 

“ Yes, my lady ; she pays for dress.” 

“ My family always do,” replied Lady 
Laura. “We seem born for silks, and satins, 
and jewels ; but then you seldom see a well- 
born person over-dressed. There was that 
Mrs. Danegelt ; people made such a fuss 
about her, though I always thought she had 
too many ornaments on ; and afterwards I 
discovered that her father was a woollen 
draper. It’s a very odd thing^how naturally 
people seem to become what they are born 
to.” b 

“ But, my lady, some people seem to think 
that anything becomes them,” said Marshall, 
drily. 

“That is very true, Marshall; and I am 
glad to know you have so much sense. It is 
very sad to see all the barriers of distinction 
in dress and other things broken down ; be- 
sides, it is so wicked, because, of course, it is 
the will of Providence.” 

“ Ah ! mamma,” laughed Audrey, “ you 
may depend upon it there are people desperate 
enough to 'believe that we are all brothers and 
sisters.” 

“ Well, perhaps, figuratively speaking, we 



“I HAVE BEEN WAITING PATIENTLY FOR YOU TO CLOSE YOUR BOOK.” 

Page 53. 

























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DOROTHY FOX. 


53 


are so ; but every right-minded person will 
know and appreciate the demands of aristo- 
cratic birth.” 

“ Then you are not one of that sort, Mar- 
shall,” said Audrey; “for I have been de- 
manding my fan and my handkerchief for the 
last twenty minutes, because, if permitted, 
my wish is to descend to the drawing-room.” 

Mr. Dynecourt made his appearance at 
dinner. He did not sit near Audrey, and 
she took little part in the general conversa- 
tion. Lady Laura, remarking this, Mr. Ford 
excused her, saying she must be tired. She 
had done so much that day, he explained ; 
adding, in his usual old-fashioned way, “ she 
has shown us that she can be as useful as 
she is ornamental.” Audrey nodded her 
thanks to the old gentleman ; and, shielding 
herself under the plea of fatigue, ate her 
dinner almost in silence. 

The Finches were leaving the next day ; 
so Mr. Ford considered it incumbent upon 
him to devote himself to them that evening * 
and Miss Verschoyle was allowed to enjoy 
her book undisturbed. At last the daylight 
slowly faded away, and she was obliged to 
give up reading. Almost immediately after, 
somebody said, — 

“ I have been waiting patiently for you to 
close your book. I had not the courage to 
disturb you.” 

It was Mr. Dynecourt; and, having said 
this, he seated himself by her side. Audrey 
expressed regret that he had not shared in 
the pleasure of the day. 

“ Did you not think of us all ?” she asked. 

“ I do not know that I thought of you all ; 
I thought of you very often.” 

“ And why ?” she demanded. 

“ Well, I can hardly say why, but things 
you had said came back to my mind. I have 
seen so few ladies lately, that you do not 
know what a treat it is to me to talk to 
one.” 

“ Ah ! ” she answered, laughing, “ observ- 
ing I was unduly flattered by your remem- 
bering me especially, you hasten to show me 
the compliment is due to my sex, not to my 
individual charms.” 

“ Indeed you are wrong ; my fear is that 
from having been unused to ladies’ society, I 
shall say too readily what is in my mind, and 
so give offence by my apparent boldness.” 

“ Have you no sisters, then?” 

“ No, nor any near female relative. All 
my intimate friends are middle-aged married 
people, so that I have never been in a posi- 
tion to talk unreservedly with any woman.” 

“ Do not tell me I have beiore me such 


a rara avis as a man who has never cared 
for any woman in particular.” 

“ You have,” he returned ; “ I do not say I 
was never haunted by a beautiful face, or that 
I never put myself out of the way to meet 
some pretty girl who had caught my fancy ; 
but as to being in love — certainly not. I have 
never seen any woman whom I desired to 
marry, and I suppose I never shall now. People 
do not readily fall in love at eight-and-twenty. 

“ ©h, men do,” said Audrey. 

“ But why men more than women ? ” 

“ Because they are younger at that age.” 

“ But not in heart?” said Mr. Dynecourt. 

“Well, I suppose not, but people can get 
on very well without love — if they have 
money.” She added: “Now, we are very 
poor. I never had money enough to meet 
my wants, and naturally I have felt some envy 
of the people who were able to get all they 
desired. So I believe the right arrangement is, 
that the rich men should marry the poor girls, 
and the heiresses the men without money.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Dynecourt, “ pray ex- 
clude me from your arrangement, for I would 
not marry the richest woman in England if I 
did not love her and she did not love me. 
I am poor, but because I have lost my 
property I have not given up every chance 
of happiness, every claim to the gift which 
God has left to us as a feeble trace of Eden. 
You do not mean that, Miss Verschoyle. I 
could not look into your face without feeling 
that you have loved, or that you will love 
deeply and truly.” 

“ It has not come yet,” she replied ; “ and, 
to quote your words, people do not readily 
fall in love at eight-and-twenty. Now, do 
not betray my confidence, for I have a horror 
of people knowing how old I am. Indeed, 
I do not know why I was weak enough* to tell 
you.” 

“ Oh, I knew it before : Mrs. Winterton 
asked me if I did not admire you ; and 
added that you were wonderfully young look- 
ing for eight-and-twenty.” 

Audrey laughed. “ I hope,” she said, 
“ you were polite enough to contradict her. 
I shall think very poorly of your savoir faire 
if you did not.” 

“ No, I did not contradict her, neither did 
I agree with her. I said what I thought — 
that you must have always looked the same, 
and that you would always continue the 
same, because it was for something more 
than actual beauty one would love to look 
upon such a face as yours.” 

She looked up at him quickly. “Stay,” 
she said, “ let me recall your speech of this 


DOROTHY FOX. 


54 


morning : ‘ I never pay compliments — flattery 
is not my forte.’ ” 

“ See,” said Mr. Dynecourt, “ already I 
have offended you ; but don’t be too severe. 

I told you I was afraid that my habit of 
speaking my thoughts would make you think 
me over bold.” 

“ Indeed !” she replied. “ I only wanted 
to assure myself that I was not going to hear 
of my goodness and amiable temper next.” 

“ I should never tell you that,” he answered, 
laughing, “ because I am. not sure that you 
have a very amiable temper. Do you know 
I thought you were, more cross than tired at 
dinner ? ” 

Audrey laughed outright. 

“ So I was,” she said, “ and you were the 
reason. I was vexed with you for not coming 
to the picnic.” 

At this moment Mr. Ford came up, and 
she went on. 

“ I am just telling Mr. Dynecourt that I 
was very cross with him for not joining us 
to-day.” 

“ That’s right, my dear, you scold hirm^T' 
did not like to interfere with you,” fre"con- 
tinued, laying his hand on the young man’s 
shoulder, “but I was very disappointed at 
your not coming. However, we will have 
another day, and then you’ll make up for it. 
We are going into the next room now ; Miss 
Finch has consented to favour us with a last 
remembrance of her beautiful music.” 

Audrey prepared to follow. 

“ Afterwards,” said Mr. Dynecourt, “ you 
will sing something.” 

“ I !” she answered ; “no, I never sing to 
people.” 

“ But you sing for people. I heard you, 
and thought it was different from any singing 
I had listened to before.” 

Then she left him, and sat by Miss Finch’s 
side, and afterwards she joined Mr. Ford, so 
there was no further conversation between 
them. Mr. Ford told her that he hoped she 
liked his favourite, and that he should be 
obliged if she would help him in his en- 
deavour to make Mr. Dynecourt’s visit as 
pleasant as possible. 

“ I shall be delighted to help you in any 
way I can,” she answered, “ and I like Mr. 
Dynecourt very much. He is rather different 
from anybody I have met before. I enjoy 
talking to him.” 

“ That is right,” answered Mr. Ford ; “ I 
want you to be excellent friends. I always 
like my favourites to take to one another.” 

“ Then am I a favourite ?” she asked, look- 
ing smilingly into his face. 


“ You are a very great favourite, my dear. 
I only wish for your sake that I was a young 
man.” 

“ Do not wish that,” she said ; “ perhaps 
you would not be so nice.” 

“ Perhaps not,” he answered, as he in- 
wardly contemplated himself at five-and- 
twenty, when he had got his first start in life. 
How would this elegant young lady have re- 
garded him then ? Certainly not with the 
eyes of love, as, “ drest all in his best,” he 
gave his Patty a treat and took her to Prim- 
rose Hill, or out to enjoy the wonders of the 
St. Helena Gardens. Ah ! what happy days 
those were — past for ever, for money could 
purchase no delights such as he knew then. 
He sighed, and turning to Audrey, said : — 

“ Make the most of your young days, Miss 
Verschoyle, for youth has happiness which in 
after life we vainly sigh for.” 

“Has it?” she replied. “I feel as if I 
had never experienced any of those plea- 
sures./ It must be very pleasant to have by- 
gone days to recall and dwell upon.” 

“Sometimes those memories come back 
very bitterly,” he said, “ and yet I would not 
wittingly part with one. Most people would 
say I have had a wonderfully prosperous life, 
and 1 thankfully acknowledge that I have ; 
but if it were permitted that we might in any 
way make a choice, I would have given up 
my money had God seen fit to spare me what 
I valued more.” 

Audrey had no opportunity of making any 
answer, for Mr. Ford abruptly turned round 
and asked Miss Trefusis to play him “The 
Harmonious Blacksmith,” and their tete-a-teie 
was not renewed. 

CHAPTER XII. — LOOKING TO BOTH SIDES. 

To regulate his feelings by his common 
sense is one of the most difficult tasks a 
man can set himself to perform. So, at all 
events, thought Captain Verschoyle as he 
endeavoured to persuade himself that, should 
Miss Bingham accept the hand his common 
sense prompted him to offer her, he ought to 
consider himself a very lucky fellow. “ She 
is extremely ladylike,” he said to himself, 
“ decidedly pretty, and inclined to be un- 
commonly fond of me.” Yet he did not like 
her, and it was no use asking himself why. 
It was enough that, notwithstanding all her 
attractions, he did not, could not, and never 
should care for her. 

He felt his utter inability to marry with- 
out money. Nevertheless this was his real 
position, and unless the girl he might desire 
to make his wife possessed an income at 


DOROTHY FOX. 


55 


least equalling his own, he must forego all 
idea of changing his condition. True, he 
might do so if he gave up his profession ; 
but, when he contemplated all the advantages 
he hoped to gain by his hard service, his 
campaigns, and Crimean feats, he exclaimed — 

“ No ! not for any woman living. What 
makes me want to get married I don’t know ; 
but certainly when I came home this time 
the idea took possession of me ; and then 
that foolish old mother of mine is so anxious 
to secure this chance, which she very flatter- 
ingly hints may be my last. Well, I suppose I 
shall be a fool if I don’t try my luck. A 
fellow does not get such a chance every day.” 

Then, as he stood in front of the glass 
settling his tie, he thought, — 

“ I’m not a bad-looking fellow, and I don’t 
think that, as men go, I’m a bad sort, but 
I’m hanged if I believe any woman was ever 
downright in love with me yet. They’ve 
shammed, and so have I, so I have not very 
much right to complain.” 

After this he succeeded in running a pin 
into the back of his neck, which feat effec- 
tually drove love and Miss Bingham out of 
his head ; and, after the manner of his sex, he 
spent the rest of the time in bestowing the 
most condemnatory epithets on those indis- 
pensable requirements. Later in the day he 
sought his mother, and finding her in her 
own room, he said suddenly, and without any 
preamble — 

“ Mother, do you know, I think I shall run 
up to town for a few days.” 

Lady Laura regarded her son with con- 
siderable surprise, but she would not commit 
herself further than to repeat, “ Going to town 
lor a few days !” 

“ Yes ; I want to see after those boxes of 
mine. There is some bother with the rail- 
way now.” 

Her ladyship put a mark in the book she 
was reading, shut it, and laid it on the table 
near her. Then turning round so that she 
might face her son, she said, as she looked 
at him fixedly — 

“ My dear Charles, what can you mean ? 
May I ask what are your intentions?” 

Captain Verschoyle laughed as he answered, 

. “ Well, the truth is, I feel so uncertain of my 
intentions, that I want to try if a week’s 
absence will not help my decision.” 

Lady Laura gave a little shrug of her 
shoulders, as she continued in her sweetest 
voice, “ You are acting very foolishly, Charles, 
and nothing is more fatal than indecision. 
Now, il you have any doubt of yourself, why 
do you not propose this very day, being quite 


certain what your line of action should be? 
After the thing is done you cannot draw back, 
and you will begin at once to see the wisdom 
of your choice.” 

“ No, mother, that is not me at all. If I 
acted upon your advice I should repent it 
immediately, and perhaps ever after.” 

Lady Laura saw she had best try a little 
severity, so she demanded in a rather sar- 
castic tone, “ Would it be too much to ask 
you what more you want than a sweet, amiable 
girl, ready to yield to your every wish ; whose 
money you might spend without a word being 
asked ; who would at any time be made . 
happy by the prospect of a ball or fete , and 
who would be won over and appeased by 
any trifling article of dress or jewellery, with- 
out casting in your teeth that it was her own 
silver which had baited the hook that secured 
her favour ?” 

“ But, mother, I don’t see why I should 
marry at all unless I am perfectly certain that 
it would immensely add to my happiness. 
My income is sufficient to keep me” 

“Oh! indeed, is it?” interrupted Lady 
Laura, elevating her eyebrows with feigned 
astonishment. 

“ Well ! I know I have kicked over the 
traces sometimes, but I always manage to 
make things square in the end. I’ve always 
contrived to pay what I owed.” 

“Really, have you?” Then she added in 
the same cutting tone, “ What a comfort for 
a mother to know that she has a son whose 
highest ambition in life is to be able to pay 
what he owes ! ” 

“ Come, come,” said Captain Verschoyle, 
“ you’re getting vexed with me, and there is 
no reason for that. I only tell you that I 
think I had best have a few days by myself 
before I decide — perhaps an unnecessary 
thing — for very likely the young lady or her 
belongings would turn up their noses at a 
penniless soldier, though he had the honour 
of being Lady Laura Verschoyle’s son.” 

“ Indeed, they would do nothing of the 
kind,” said Lady Laura, angrily. “ Though 
it is quite true dozens of men would snap at 
her, yet remember every man is not con- 
nected as you are; and from something 
I learned about them a few days since, I 
know that unless she does marry somebody of 
good family, she will never get into a good 
set. Turn up their noses at you indeed ! If 
they did, I should soon give them a quiet hint 
which would considerably alter their tone.” 

Lady Laura said a great deal more to her 
son, and he said a great deal more to her ; 
but in spite of her advices, her remon- 


5^ 


DOROTHY FOX. 


strances, and cutting speeches, he ended as 
he had begun, with a determination to excuse 
himself to Mr. Ford on the plea of business, 
and to start the next morning for London, 
where he said he should probably remain a 
week. 

During the day Captain Verschoyle told 
his sister of his intended visit to London, 
assigning as a reason for his absence his 
anxiety about the missing boxes. Audrey 
only laughed and shook her head as she bade 
him put no trust in the saying, that ; “ Ab- 
sence makes the heart grow fonder.”; .“It 
may make it grow fonder of somebody else, 
Charlie,” she went on, “ but not of the one 
on whom you are just now trying the recipe.” 

“ Mind your own business,” returned her 
brother, “ and keep your wisdom to help you 
to swallow your own pill ; for I tell you, 
Audrey, that if I were you that old fellow 
would be a choker for me.” 

“ My dear Charles, do you know that the 
domestic animals of our species are, by a 
wonderful provision of nature, gifted with 
a remarkable power, by which they can get 
down the most unpleasant bolus, provided it 
be only well gilded ? ” 

Then as soon as she had driven him off, 
and was alone, she said to herself, “ Poor 
Charlie, he need not be in a great hurry now 
I shall be of some service to him, I hope. 
How delightful to think of being able to be 
generous ! Mr. Ford is a liberal man I see, 
and he is certainly very kind to me ; and I ” 
— here she sat thinking for some time until 
the luncheon bell disturbed her, and she 
arose hurriedly, saying, “ It’s of no use ; once 
for all let me remember that the thing is 
impossible. Impossible ? Why, what folly 
will seize me next ? Are we not two beggars 
with nothing but our hearts to call our own ? 
If I do not take care,” she added with a little 
bitter laugh, “ even that small possession 
will not remain long in my keeping. How a 
woman might love him though ! And I be- 
lieve that he has never cared for any one 
before.” 

Surely Audrey could not have meant Mr. 
Ford in speaking thus to herself ; for as she 
went down the stairs her last thought was, “ I 
hope that when I am mistress here he will 
let me be very kind to him.” 

After luncheon Lady Laura took the op- 
portunity of trying to find out from Mrs. 
Winterton how long she thought of remaining 
at Dynecourt. Hearing that her stay was 
likely to last lor a fortnight longer, her spirits 
rose. 

“ To tell you the truth,” she said, “ I am 


asking on my dear boy’s account. Those 
horrid people at the Horse-Guards will never 
let him alone, and he h&s to go there to-morrow 
on some business which may detain him for a 
week. Poor fellow ! he is so dismal about 
it ; and he is dreadfully anxious to be certain 
that he will find you here when he returns. 
I don’t think I shall speak to you,” continued 
her ladyship playfully to Miss Bingham who 
joined them ; “I am so jealous. Here I 
find Charles low-spirited and dull because, as 
I think, he has to leave his foolishly fond 
mother for a week ; but, dear me, I discover 
that I am nobody, and that all this anxiety is 
about somebody else, and whether she will 
be here when he returns.” 

Though Miss Bingham exclaimed, “ Oh ! 
Lady Laura, what do you mean?” she was 
evidently pleased, and quite forgot her vexa- 
tion of a few hours before, which had been 
occasioned by Captain Verschoyle, without 
any comment or seeming regret, telling her 
that he was going to London for a week. 

“ Ah ! you may well look guilty,” con- 
tinued Lady Laura, drawing the young lady’s 
arm within her own ; “ and during his ab- 
sence I shall make ytrn console me by being 
my constant companion.” 

In spite of this manoeuvre, and notwith- 
standing that Lady Laura felt she had 
managed matters in the best possible manner, 
she was still extremely annoyed with her 
son; and when next morning he came to 
wish her “ good-bye,” she said that she was 
very unwell, that she had passed a sleepless 
night, and that her nerves were completely 
unstrung. 

“ Now don’t look so dismal, mother,” he 
said. “ I daresay by the time I come back I 
shall be only too delighted to listen to your 
sage advice, and to act upon it.” 

Lady Laura closed her eyes, and feebly 
shook her head, intimating that it little mat- 
tered, for he would not have her long : she 
was not what she used to be before he went 
to the Crimea. 

“ Remember, Charles,” she added, “ I can- 
not stand anxiety now; and it is only my 
duty to tell you that Dr. Coulson says my 
life hangs upon the merest thread.” 

Still though she bade him good-bye with 
the air of one taking what was likely to prove 
a final adieu, she entrusted him with a note 
to her milliner, Madame Roget, telling him 
to impress upon Madame the urgency of these 
commissions being immediately attended to, 
so that the new bonnet and head-dress 
ordered might be ready by the following 
Friday, when he was to bring them down 


DOROTHY FOX. 


57 


with him. After this she kissed him mourn- 
iully, and sank back upon the sofa ap- 
parently exhausted. But, much to her son’s 
astonishment, as he was slowly descending 
the stairs, thinking that he had behaved in a 
most unfeeling manner, he heard her calling 
in her usual voice — 

“ Charles, Charles, tell Madame Roget 
that if she has any doubt about tulle she is to 
put lace, but that I desire it may not be such 
an expensive one as the last she used.” 

“ All right, mother,” replied Captain Vers- 
choyle, greatly relieved by this sudden 
change for the better ; “ I’ll be sure to exe- 
cute your commissions, and you shall have 
something scrumptious when I come back.” 

Having already said good-bye to the rest 
of the party, who were assembled in the 
dining-room, he drove past with a wave of 
the hand. 

All the way up he had been thinking that 
perhaps he was, after all, setting off on a 
tool’s errand. Miss Bingham had looked 
uncommonly pretty that morning, and she 
seemed quite sorry that he was going. It 
would be rather a sell if, while he was away, 
he should be cut out by Dynecourt, who 
hadn’t any more than he had, and was there- 
fore equally open to temptation. 

I — * — “Well, what a dog-in-the-manger beast I 
am !” he said. “ I don’t want the girl myself 
— at least I am not quite certain whether I 
do want her or not — and so I don’t wish any 
other fellow to have her while the doubt is on 
V m y mind, j I should not do badly if I had 
her money, particularly if we were to be 
quartered at York this winter. What would 
old Harry Egerton say to her, I wonder ? I 
have a good mind to run down to Kilcoy, 
and have a talk with the old boy. I want 
to see him, and I know in his heart he wants 
to see me, though he’d die before he’d say 
so.” 

And as he drove to his hotel, for he had de- 
cided not to go to Egmont Street, he thought 
over the plan. The next two days in London 
with nothing to do, nobody to see, and no- 
where to go, considerably told in Miss Bing- 
ham’s favour. Captain Verschoyle came to 
the conclusion that having finished his os- 
tensible business and arranged to go to the 
Paddington station for the missing boxes that 
evening, he might as well write to his mother 
and tell her that it was very probable he 
should return next day. He would not an- 


nounce his intentions too decidedly, else her 
ladyship would fancy by his more speedy 
return that the business was to be settled 
to her satisfaction without delay. He had 
only got so far as to say that things must 
take their course — che sard sard. He half 
wished something would turn up to prevent 
him from returning before the day he had 
specified, but he could not stay in London 
longer — the place was unbearable. 

When he reached Paddington the station 
was in all the bustle consequent on the 
arrival of the train from Plymouth. He 
therefore waited until most of the passengers 
had left, and then went on the platform 
to speak to the guard. He was standing 
looking for him when a porter, addressing 
some one near, said, “ No, ma’am, there’s no 
lady waiting on the other side.” 

“ Perhaps we had better go on, then,” re 
turned a voice in answer. .“ Wilt thou get a 
cab for us, and direct the man to drive to 
the Shoreditch station ?” 

Captain Verschoyle turned quickly round 
and exclaimed, — 

“ Mrs. Fox, how glad I am to see you 
again ! I hope you will permit me to be of 
any service to you that I can.” 

Patience held out her hand, saying, “ In- 
deed, I am very glad to see thee, for I have 
so little knowledge of London that I feel 
quite bewildered to be alone. My daughter 
was to have met us, but I fear something 
unforeseen has happened, as she is not here.” 

“ Your daughter !” 

“ Yes, Grace Hanbury, my married daughter. 
Oh ! Dorothy is with me.” 

Immediately Captain Verschoyle was ex- 
pressing his pleasure at meeting Miss Fox 
again. 

“ Did I hear you say you were going to 
Shoreditch?” he asked. 

“Yes, my daughter lives at Fryston, on 
that line.” 

“Then you must allow me to see you 
safely to the station.” 

“Would it not be giving thee trouble?” 
said Patience. 

“ No, indeed, it would be giving me great 
pleasure, so you will not refuse me.” 

“ Thank thee,” replied Patience ; “ in that 
case I will gladly accept thy off er, for Dorothy 
and I are but country folk, and, therefore, 
somewhat timid away from home in this large 
city.” 



5 § 


DOROTHY FOX. 


1P-A-IR/T "V. 


CHAPTER XIIT. — JOSIAH AT BAY. 

URING the 
time Pa- 
tience and 
Dorothy Fox 
were under 
Captain Ver- 
schoyl e’s 
escort driv- 
ing to the 
Shoreditch 
Station, 
Grace Plan- 
bur y was 
anxiously 
waiting for 
them. 

A slight 
accident had 
detained the 
Frys ton train 
for more than 
an hour on the road, so that Grace did not 
reach London until after her mother and sister 
were due at Paddington. 

Fearing if she then went on, they might 
cross each other, she remained where she 
was, in a state of great anxiety and trepida- 
tion ; doubtful as to what they would do, 
whether they would t^iink it best to come on 
or to wait ; and knowing her mother in any 
case would be nervous at not seeing her. 

The hour she had given for their drive 
from Paddington had passed, and she was 
standing on the steps irresolute as to the 
expediency of her taking a cab and starting 
oft' in search of them ; when, to her un- 
bounded relief, they drove up. 

“ Oh, mother ! I am so delighted to see 
you,” she exclaimed. “ I have been so 
fidgeted about you both. Dorothy, my dear, 
give me your bag. I started from Fryston so 
as to have more than an hour to spare ; but 
the engine of our train broke down, and I was 
detained on the road for nearly two hours. Of 
course I was in an agony to know how you 
would get on, for” — looking at Captain Vers- 
choyle — “ I feared you were alone.” 

“ So we were,” said Patience, “ but at the 
station we most fortunately met Charles 
Verschoyle, and he kindly undertook to con- 
vey us safely here.” 

“ Wilt thou let me introduce thee to my 
daughter Grace Hanbury ? ” she said, turning 



to Captain Verschoyle, who was looking with 
some astonishment at this elegant woman, 
fashionably dressed, and very different from 
the person he had expected to find awaiting 
them. 

Grace held out her hand, saying, “You 
have done me such good service in taking 
care of my mother and sister, that we must 
be friends at once. And now about your lug- 
gage : the Fryston train goes in ten minutes, 
and I think we might save it. If you will 
stay here, mother, Mr. Verschoyle and I will 
look after your parcels.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Patience addressing Captain 
Verschoyle, “we must not trespass further 
on thy goodness.” 

“ i ou must allow me to see you safely off, 
Mrs. Fox;” and he followed Grace, who 
was wondering who this good-looking man 
could be. “Verschoyle! Verschoyle !” she 
could not remember any Friends of that 
name ; “ an admirer of Dolly’s perhaps ; I 
must ask him to dinner.” 

The luggage was soon ready. The train 
drew up, Captain Verschoyle found them a 
carriage to themselves, helped them in, looked 
after all their little comforts, and then stood 
waiting to see them start. By this time he 
had quite won Grace’s heart ; and she said, 
“ I hope you wil^come down to Fryston and 
see us. It is only a short journey from 
London, and we can give you a bed.” 

Patience was so taken aback at this speech, 
she hardly knew what to do ; and at that 
moment it was impossible to explain to Grace 
the slight knowledge they had of the young 
man whom she mistook for an intimate 
acquaintance. 

Captain Verschoyle saw her confusion ; and 
thinking it perhaps arose from the difference 
her mind made between their positions, he 
answered — 

“ You are very kind, and I should like to 
come of all things ; but unfortunately I was 
thinking of leaving town to-morrow.” 

“ Don’t go to-morrow, come to us to- 
morrow; I want to introduce my husband 
to you.” 

“Well, if you don’t mind having me to- 
morrow, I will come with pleasure.” 

“ I am so glad,” said a soft voice. It was 
Dorothy, who, meeting Captain Verschoyle’s 
eyes turned suddenly upon her, became crim- 
| son. She had not intended to give utterance 


DOROTHY FOX. 


59 


to her thoughts ; but she was so glad he was 
coming that they might see him again. 
Twenty times during the last two hours she 
had wished Josiah Crewdson were like him, 
not only in appearance, but in being able to 
know everything you wanted without being 
told, and in saying such pleasant things. 

Dorothy need not have been so hard upon 
poor Josiah; sympathy might have softened 
her comparisons, tor just now it was she who 
was self-conscious and shy, sitting silent 
while her mother and Grace talked to their 
new friend. 

Mrs. Hanbury gave him all the necessary 
instructions about the train he was to come 
by, and then they had to say “ Good-bye,” 
leaving Captain Verschoyle standing, hat in 
hand, watching their departure. 

“What a handsome man, mother!” ex- 
claimed Grace, as soon as they were out of 
hearing; “so nice too, and gentlemanly! 
Who is he ? ” 

Patience gave her the history of their ac- 
quaintanceship, and Grace was much amused 
at it, and her own mistake ; “ for, of course,” 
she said, “ I supposed he was a friend of yours ; 
indeed,” she added, laughing, “ I was not sure 
he was not a lov^r of our little Dolly’s.” 

“ Oh ! Grace,” cried Dorothy, while all the 
blood seemed ‘rushing to her face, “ why, he 
is a soldier.” 

“ A soldier ! what, one of father’s old 
enemies ! Why, you look as horrified, child, 
as if he were a Mohammedan. Dear me ! 
how father used to lash those unfortunate red 
coats, until I longed to tak?up.the cudgels 
in their defence. But •! daresay he has 
changed many of his notions against them 
since the war ; for notwithstanding our pre- 
judices, we Friends would have fared badly 
but for these ‘ sons of Belial/ as Dorcas 
Horsenail used to term them.” 

“ Ah ! thou must not laugh at Dorcas,” 
said Patience ; “ her peculiarities are few, and 
her good qualities many. When any of the 
soldiers come home sick or disabled, Dorcas 
forgets whose sons she calls them, and makes 
them her own charge.” 

“ Yes, and you will see, mother,” added 
Grace, “that all these prejudices which Friends 
have held because their grandfathers held 
them, will die out ; while those principles 
which they have sifted for themselves, will 
continue as long as the sect exists. As for 
the love of fighting, it is born in boys; I 
believe it is their very nature.” 

“ What dost thou think I heard father ask 
cousin Josh when he came to see us?” said 
Dorothy, — “ If he did not remember at York 


school how they used to fight the boys of 
j other schools, when they got a chance, 

I because they called after them ‘ Quack* 
Quack ! ” 

“ That is splendid — oh ! we will hold that 
as a rod in pickle over him, Dolly.” 

The rest of the journey was taken up in 
giving an account of all the west-country 
Friends, most of whom were known to, and 
many connected with Grace. 

As Captain Verschoyle drove back to his 
hotel, he laughed to himself. This unlooked- 
for meeting would detain him in town 
another day. Perhaps it was almost a pity 
to have accepted it, as there would be the 
bother of sending a telegram to his mother. 
However, it was done, so it was no use re- 
gretting ; and then he thought “ How pretty 
that girl is ! I don’t think I have seen another 
such face since I have been in England. I 
like her manner too, half shy and childish, 
and then suddenly becoming most prim and 
old-'ashioned. The sister evidently does not 
belong to the Quaker persuasion, except 
wearing that plafti dress and peculiar bonnet 
affair. I wonder at women having anything 
to do with them ; and yet I don’t know if 
I should have admired her as much in the 
flounces and furbelows the girls deck them- 
selves out with now; her very quaintness 
would be half the charm to some fellows. 

I have known men who would have raved 
about her eyes — they are lovely, and couldn’t 
she make them speak too ! By Jove ! I 
should think she made the hearts of all the 
thees and thou's in the community palpitate 
pretty considerably.” 

Whether in this respect Captain Vers- 
choyle’s speculations upon Dorothy’s charms 
were strictly correct, does not appear; but 
certain it is, that one man seemed only to 
have found out that he had a heart since 
those brown eyes had met his, — not with the 
shy coy glances they gave to Charles Vers- 
choyle, but with a fearless open gaze straight 
into his own, which could not, and if they 
could, dare not, tell her all he longed to say. 

Josiah Crewdson had been home a week, 
though it seemed to him a year — a year of 
long separate days, every hour of which in- 
creased the growth of his love for Dorothy 
Fox. The time which, before he saw her, 
was willingly devoted to business was now 
given by force. He was obliged to make an 
effort not to think of the bewitching face 
which tormentingly came between him and 
those long rows of figures he used to run 
down and add up with such fluency and skill. 
Alas for poor Josiah ! now that he knew the 


6o 


DOROTHY FOX. 


pleasure life could give, there was no more 
contentment in the joyless existence he had 
before spent. 

He had given great offence to his sisters 
by his strict reticence with regard to his visit 
generally, and to Dorothy in particular. The 
Miss Crewdsons enjoined silence as a virtue 
to be especially practised by Friends. But 
it is not in the human nature of women, even 
Friends, not to be especially curious regarding 
those of their sex of whom they have heard 
much, and seen but little. The beauty of 
Patience Fox had been acknowledged, and her 
daughter was said to more than equal her in 
personal favour ; therefore, though Josiah 
would have been severely rebuked had he 
dwelt upon Dorothy’s fair face, Jemima and 
Kezia itched to give that rebuke which their 
brother’s taciturnity drove them to withhold. 
Josiah answered “Yes” or “No” to any 
question they chose to put to him, but he 
volunteered not the slightest information, 
until Kezia was driven to say that conceal- 
ment and mystery led to discord among 
families, and was a thing which their father 
particularly warned his son against. But the 
arrow fell aimless in its attempt to loosen 
Josiah’s tongue. 

Then Jemima tried her hand, and remarked, 
that it was a pity Josiah had gone to see 
the Foxes in such a spirit, as, by his own 
showing, he had failed to produce a favour- 
able impression upon Dorothy, who was 
doubtless a woman of discernment. 

Then, to their great astonishment, Josiah 
turned upon them, told them to mind their 
own business, not to interfere with him, but 
to leave him to manage his own affairs. 
What he thought of Dorothy, or what she 
thought of him, concerned themselves alone, 
and he did not want it made a subject of any 
general or domestic conversation. But if they 
wanted to know what he thought of Dorothy 
Fox, he would tell them in a few words. 
And here Josiah’s florid round face became 
crimson, and he stammered and stuttered so 
violently, that he had to jump up suddenly, 
and seize his bed-room candle; while, be- 
tween the futile attempts his unsteady hand 
made to light it, he managed to get out : 
“ She’s the best, and the most beautiful, and 
the most clever, and the best tempered, and 
the sweetest girl I ^er saw in all my life ; 
and I hope she will marry me, and then I 
don’t care for anything else or anybody.” 
Having delivered himself of this paean in 
favour of the lady of his love, Josiah wound 
up with an imprecation against the unfortu- 
nate candle, which was the neares' approach 


he had ever made in his life towards swear- 
ing, banged the door behind him, and left his 
sisters speechless with astonishment at his 
extraordinary and unwarrantable effrontery. 

For once in their lives the Miss Crewdsons 
seemed to become absolutely limp. Had 
they heard aright ? Were they in their senses ? 
Could these words, still ringing in their ears, 
have come from “ that boy Josiah ?” 

“ Oh, Jemima !” Kezia at last found breath 
to gasp out, “ if father had been alive ! ” 

“ Then he’d never have dared to do it,” 
answered her sister ; “ but there’s more in this 
than meets the eye, and unless I am mistaken 
thou wilt find Dorothy Fox is a bold, forward 
girl, and no more fitted to be the wife of our 
Josiah than — than thou art.” 

And then a solemn conference ensued, as 
to the best way of rooting out of Josiah the 
“flesh and the devil,” which two evils had 
evidently' taken hold of him. One thing they 
both decided upon, which was, that for the 
present they had better not mention the sub- 
ject to him, but let him alone as he had said, 
and preserve towards him a demeanour in- 
dicative of great injury, unwonted severity, 
and strict silence. 

So the next morning, when Josiah, some- 
what abashed at his unusual boldness, desired 
to make amends by being especfally attentive to 
his sisters, his amicable endeavours met with 
no response. Whenever they supplied any 
of his wants at breakfast, they did so with 
the air of those who don’t say they hope, but 
they shall be surprised if, they are not heaping 
“ coals of fire ”*upon the transgressor’s head. 
And they sniffed their rather long noses, as if 
those organs were being gratified by the smell 
emanating from the retributory process. 

Josiah drove into Leeds a trifle more 
dispirited perhaps than usual, but not so 
disconsolate as after former ebullitions of 
the family temper he had been wont to be. 
Now, at least in thought, he had some 
one to turn to. Surely, surely Dorothy 
would learn to love him. She had tol 1 him 
she liked him ; and Nathaniel said that 
meant love, only it was the way of women 
not to speak openly of their feelings; that 
Josiah, by experience, could understand. He 
knew how impossible it was for him to tell 
her what he wanted to say ; but if she only 
felt it, and would give him a little encourage- 
ment, he could say all that now seemed lying 
heavily at his heart. 

So the day and its duties went on, and 
Josiah strove with all his might to bend his 
energy to his business, and not allow himself 
to give one thought to Dorothy until the 


DOROTHY FOX. 


6 1 


Cloth Hall was closed, the good bargains 
made, the opportunities seized upon. 

Then he threw himself into his well-worn 
office chair, looked at his watch, found it was 
past four o’clock, gave a sigh of relief, thought 
of Dorothy, and wondered if she was think- 
ing of him. Perhaps so. She would be 
most likely working ; or he pictured her near 
the old yew-tree — her favourite seat — read- 
ing (for he knew nothing of the letter then on 
its road, telling him of her journey to London). 

Was she thinking of him? No, indeed ! 

Fortunately for Josiah, he has no magic 
mirror, by whose aid he can see Dorothy, or 
read her thoughts. If he had, he would have 
found they were not only far removed from 
him, but given to another ; and for that 
ether Dorothy (though she would have fairly 
denied the charge, and would have been 
shocked at the accusation) had been spend- 
ing more time in the arrangement of her 
hair and the adjustment of her plain dress, j 
than she had ever done before ; and, 
worst of all, when it was completed, she 
was never more dissatisfied with her ap- 
pearance. If she had only some bit of 
colour on, she knew she would look better. 
So she picked from the box outside the 
window a piece of scarlet geranium, and held 
it up against her dress ; then, after a guilty 
look around, she stuck it for a moment in 
her hair — how pretty it looked there ! But a 
sudden horror of her vanity seizing her, she 
pulled it hastily out, smoothed the place 
over with her hand, and ran half-way down- 
stairs, then back ag tin, picked up the flower, 
and demurely came down with it in her hand. 

Grace was at the door, just setting off to 
drive her ponies down to the station to meet 
Captain Verschoyle. 

She nodded to her sister ; thinking how 
pretty the girl looked, as she stood in front 
of the handsome old-fashioned house, watch- 
ing the carriage until it was out of sight. 

Fryston Grange, the house of John and 
Grace Hanbury, was one of those houses 
built at a time when people who lived twenty 
miles from London were as completely coun- 
try-folk as the present dwellers in remote parts 
of Cumberland or Cornwall. 

The railway had completely altered the 
people, but it had left the little town very 
much as it had found it. What was the use 
of building shops when most of the inhabit- 
ants went to London for all their household 
purchases? Then land for fresh residences 
could not be bought, as Fryston was en- 
circled by a royal forest, on whose borders 
stood John Hanbury’s house, — a long, ram- 


bling building, with walls covered by a net- 
work of ivy, climbing up until their straggling 
sprays even reached and twined round the 
quaint chimneys. The windows opened on 
a lawn dotted over with pine trees, and here an 
old fir, there a cedar, farther on a fantastic 
willow. From between the trees the distant 
landscape opened — Warleigh — the Kentish 
hills, led up to by a rich display of timber in 
all its verdant stages. 

John Hanbury was the only son of a 
wealthy merchant. His father had given him 
a liberal education, had sent him to travel for 
a couple of years, and had been delighted to 
find when his son returned that his heart was 
still faithful to his boyish love, Grace Fox, 
whose aunt had married Mr. Hanbury’s 
younger brother. 

Grace was a great favourite with old Mr. 
and Mrs. Hanbury, who, though they strictly 
conformed in every way to the rules of the 
Society of Friends, had no objection to the 
more liberal notions of their son and his wife. 
Nothing pleased the old couple better than 
to see gathered round their son’s table the 
best society that part of the country afforded, 
and to be present at any festivities given at 
the Grange. So that the house Captain 
Verschoyle was going to differed in no re- 
spect from one belonging to the circle in 
which he generally moved, with the excep- 
tion that it realised the word home, and 
within its walls presented a picture of thorough 
domestic happiness, such as it had never 
before been his good fortune to witness. 

CHAPTER XIV.— FRYSTON GRANGE. 

Before Mrs. Hanbury and Captain Vers- 
choyle reached the Grange, she had con- 
trived to make him know, without seeming 
to tell him, the position her husband filled as 
a corn merchant in the city. 

Grace, of course, understood better than 
Patience the distinction many people made 
with respect to position. She knew that 
Captain Verschoyle was aware her father was a 
tradesman, and she wished him to under- 
stand that her husband was also in business. 

As they approached the house the trees 
attracted his attention, and, in answer to 
his praise of them, Grace said, “We are 
very vain of our trees ; I display them with 
great pride of heart to my father, who 
always tries to take me down by reminding 
me of that wonderful yew hedge they have at 
Kingsheart. You went there, I think?” 

“ Yes, and I never enjoyed an afternoon 
more. What a charming woman your mother 
is, Mrs. Hanbury !” 


62 


DOROTHY FOX. 


“ She is, indeed,” replied Grace. “ I think I 
her the sweetest, most lovable woman in the j 
world : and Dorothy will be wonderfully like 
her. I am but her step-daughter,” she con- 
tinued ; — “ not that I believe her own child 
loves her better, — and, mingled with my love, 
is so much gratitude for never letting me for- 
get my own mother, and never letting me re- 
member that I was motherless.” 

“ I can quite fancy all that of her,” said 
Captain Verschoyle. “ When my sister and 
I saw her and Miss Fox standing together, 
we thought they formed one of the most per- 
fect pictures we had ever seen.” 

“ Dorothy, you know, is very young, and 


I from never having seen many strangers, rather 
j shy and reserved ; but she is a dear child to 
us who know her.” 

“She is very beautiful,” replied Captain 
Verschoyle. “ My sister, who has a passion for 
dress, took it seriously to heart that Miss Fox 
could not be attired in some very recherche. 
toilette, which she considered invented for 
her particular style of beauty.” 

Grace laughed. “ I daresay you do not 
think I am a Friend, or rather a Quaker, 
as you would term us. My husband and I 
consider the singularity of dress a distinction 
no longer necessary ; but my dear father pins 
his faith to a broad-brimmed hat and coal- 



Page 60. 


scuttle bonnet; and we were terribly afraid 
he would insist on Dolly wearing one of those 
frightful things. But he pretends to look 
upon her as still a child, though I believe his 
heart failed him at the idea of hiding her 
sweet face under such a disguise.” 

“And yet how pretty she looks in the 
plain dress she wears ! ” 

“ True, but she would look fifty times 
prettier in a more becoming one. I intend 
trying to induce them to give way a little in 
that matter while she is with me.” 


“ If you succeed, you must allow me an. 
opportunity of judging of the effect,” said 
Captain Verschoyle, laughing. 

“ Certainly. This is our house.” 

They turned into the gates, and drove up 
to the door. 

“ They seem all to be in the garden,” said 
Mrs. Hanbury ; “ shall we go and find them?” 
And stepping through the library window, 
they walked across the lawn ; where, belore 
they had gone many steps, they met Patience, 
who gave Captain Verschoyle a warm greeting. 


SHE SPRANG UP IN GREAT CONFUSION. 


















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DOROTHY FOX. 


65 


“ And where is Dorothy ? ” asked Grace. 

“With the children; I left them all romp- 
ing together, as I want to write to thy father 
by this post.” 

“You must see my children,” said Grace, 
and she and Captain Verschoyle proceeded 
down a side walk into a sort of wilderness, 
where a sudden turn brought them in front 
of Dorothy seated on the grass ; while the 
two little girls adorned her hair with daisies 
and poppies. She sprang up in great con- 
fusion, and before speaking to Captain Vers- 
choyle, began trying to pull out the flowers. 

“ Oh ! Aunt Dorothy, please don’t,” cried 
both the children. 

“ No indeed,” said Captain Verschoyle, 
“ it is a pity, for they look so pretty,” and he 
took her hand, holding it for a moment. 
“ Do let them stay, Miss Fox, they are really 
most becoming.” 

Just at this moment the groom came to 
ask his mistress if he was to go for his master, 
or if she intended driving down herself. 

Grace hesitated, and Captain Verschoyle 
said, “You are not allowing me to detain 
you, Mrs. Hanbury?” 

“ If you do not mind, and Dolly will take 
my place and do the honours, I think I will 
go to the station for John. I always like to 
meet him if possible.” 

“ Then I hope you will not allow me to 
keep you. If Miss Fox will consent to take 
charge of me, I will endeavour to be as 
obedient and docile as a ” 

“ Friend,” put in Grace, laughing. 

“Well, a Friend — though I intended to 
say a lamb.” 

“Synonymous terms,” she cried, as she 
prepared to leave them. “ And in your case 
we will transpose the motto, and call you a 
Friend or sheep in wolves’ clothing.” 

“ What does she mean ? ” he asked, turning 
to Dorothy. 

“Because thou art a soldier,” she said, 
looking at him shyly. 

“ Oh, I see — of course, Quakers don’t like 
fighting. Then do you not like soldiers, 
Miss Fox?” 

“ We know it is wrong to shed blood,” she 
replied, looking very demure ; “ and I do not 
hold with their principles.” 

“Neither do I, as a rule,” said Captain 
Verschoyle, smiling at the little Puritan’s man- 
ner ; “ but that is not answering my question. 
If a soldier hadn’t any principles, would you 
dislike him — the man himself, I mean ? ” 

“ I — I never knew any before I saw thee;” 
and Dorothy’s brown eyes looked up with a 
coy expression, that made Captain Vers- 
5 


choyle think them fifty times more lovely than 
before ; and he said, “ Then am I to under- 
stand that you have based all your dislike 
to my profession on me ? ” 

This time Dorothy looked up with a smile, 
saying — “ I never said ,1 disliked thee, but I 
think it is a great pity thou art a soldier, to 
fight with and kill thy fellow-creatures.” 

“ Oh ! I am not at all a blood-thirsty 
warrior,” laughed Captain Verschoyle ; “ I am 
a dreadful coward: indeed I am not sure 
that I did not run away whenever I saw the 
Russians approaching.” 

“ Run away ! ” exclaimed Dorothy. “ Oh ! 
I am sure thou art far too brave to do that ; 
none of our soldiers ever ran away.” 

“ But would not that be the right thing to 
do ? You know I shall not be able to carry 
out my character of being a Quaker if you 
do not tell me how I am to act.” 

“ But thou art not a Friend. Thou must 
not call us Quakers,” she said, looking archly 
at him for a moment, and then dropping her 
eyes suddenly, making her companion repeat 
to himself, “ How lovely she is ! It is the 
sweetest face I ever saw ;” and with the irre- 
sistible desire of making her look up again 
he said, “ But if you would try, you might 
make me one. I am sure you must have 
| converted very many people.” 

! What could he mean ? Dorothy felt it was 
something more than his words said ; and in 
the confusion that suddenly oppressed her, 
she began pulling off the leaves of her gera- 
nium, which after all she had pinned (or 
rather salved her conscience by allowing 
Rosie to pin) in her dress. 

This pretty bashfulness, with not a trace of 
gaucherie , only increased Captain Verschoyle’s 
admiration. It was something entirely new 
to a man who had generally been met half 
or more than half way on his own ground. 
A flirtation with such an entire novice had a 
freshness which gave new zest to the some- 
what hackneyed amusement. He felt himself 
entire master of his own position, and that 
feeling too being new, he was pleased with 
himself, and doubly pleased with his pupil. 

To Dorothy’s untutored ears his little 
commonplace -compliments and every-day 
speeches sounded like some sweet music 
which searched her heart, and awoke and 
stirred up feelings which before lay slumber- 
ing and unheeded. 

“ You are spoiling your bouquet,” he said ; 
“poor flowers ! give them to me. Here is a 
Marguerite for you to try your fate upon. 
You know the way, do you not?” 

“ No ; I have seen a picture of Marguerite 


66 


DOROTHY FOX. 


with a daisy in her hand ; but I did not 
know ” 

“ What ! not know,” he interrupted, “ that 
she was trying to see how much she was 
loved ? Ah ! you have tried that often.” 

“ Indeed I have not.” 

“ Now, Miss Fox, will you look straight 
into my face, and tell me to believe that you 
were never interested enough in any one of 
your devoted admirers to care to what state 
of desperation you had driven them ? ” 

Poor Dorothy ! without looking up, she 
felt that he was looking fixedly at her, and 
that it was impossible to raise her eyes from 
the ground ; then a thought rushed through 
her mind— could he, by any possibility, know 
anything of Josiah ? and her face crimsoned 
at the suspicion. 

“ Ah !” said Captain Verschoyle, “ I knew 
you must plead guilty.” 

“ No,” stammered Dorothy, trying to be 
unconcerned, and to treat it as a joke, “ I do 
not plead guilty.” Then raising her face 
without looking at him, she said, “ I never 
tried it, or even heard of it before.” 

“ Then I will teach you. Hold the flower 
in your own hand, so ; and now you must 
think of somebody who loves you. That is 
very easy, is it not ? But you too must care 
a little, or you will have no anxiety as to the 
result. Now give me your hand, and pull off 
that leaf, and say after me : * He loves me, 
passionately; indifferently ; not at all ;’ at each 
sentence a leaf, and the last leaf decides it.” 

“ Passionately !” she exclaimed, looking 
up with a radiant face of belief. 

“ I knew it would be that,” he answered. 

“ How couldst thou know ? thou — thou 
couldst not tell who I meant.” 

“ Still I knew. Now you will see that mine 
will come, ‘ Not at all ;”’ and he commenced 
pulling off the leaves : “ ‘ Passionately ; ’ ‘ In- 
differently ; ’ ‘ Not at all ; ’ ‘ Passionately ; ’ 
‘Indifferently;’ ‘Not at all.’ There, did I 
not tell you so ? ” 

“ Oh ! but they are not true,” she cried ; 
“ try another.” 

“ No, I have no need to try, after what you 
say ; I am only too happy in hearing that it is 
not true.” 

Before Dorothy could speak, Grace and 
Mr. Hanbury had turned into the walk. 

‘‘ Here you are at last,” she exclaimed. “ I 
could not imagine where you had wandered, 
and I began to think whether I ought not to 
feel anxious; but John, who is one of those un- 
pleasantly matter-of-fact persons, calmed me 
by the prosaic observation, ‘that people always 
found their way home about dinner time.’” 


Mr. Hanbury and Captain Verschoyle 
shook hands, and they all turned towards 
the house ; Dorothy silent, and glad that no 
one obliged her to talk. 

Was she waking from a dream that some 
charmed tongue h d lulled her into ? Waking 
to the consciousness that she, Dorothy Fox, 
had forgotten her principles, let slip her 
scruples, and laid entirely aside her maidenly 
reserve ; towards whom ? for what ? To- 
wards a stranger, a— a soldier ; for vainly did 
she pretend that no name was in her thoughts 
when she pulled the leaves off the flower. 
She resolved to hold more guard over her- 
self, and to remember the testimony she was 
called upon to bear. But before she had 
finished rearranging her dress, she was recall- 
ing each word that Charles Verschoyle had 
said, and as she stood regarding herself criti- 
cally in the glass, she wondered if he liked 
people with fair hair. She hoped so ; and then 
a prick of conscience made her turn away, 
until she soothed herself by thinking, why need 
she be so troubled? perhaps, after to-day, 
she should never see him again ; and, at the 
thought, she gave an involuntary sigh. 

By the time John Hanbury and Captain 
Verschoyle arose from the dinner-table to 
join the ladies, each man had said to him- 
self of the other : “ This is the nicest fellow 
I have met with for some time.” 

Charles Verschoyle was not a brilliantly cle- 
ver man, but he was a thoroughly companion- 
able one, with a nature, ready and able to ap- 
preciate frank, straightforward John Hanbury. 

When they entered the drawing-room Mrs. 
Hanbury was playing some of the “ Lieder 
ohne Worte ” to her mother and sister. 

! ‘ Don’t stop, Grace,” said her husband, 
going up to the piano ; “ I dare say Captain 
Verschoyle will not object to a little music.” 

Captain Verschoyle expressed his great 
love for music, stopped to hear Mrs. Han- 
bury for a few minutes, and then sauntered 
over to the place he had fixed upon when 
he first came in — the chair next to Dorothy. 

“ You play, of course, Miss Fox, and 
sing, I know, like a nightingale.” 

“No, I have never learnt,” she answered. 

“ Never learnt ! why, how is that ? I 
thought learning the piano was considered as 
necessary for young ladies as learning to read 
and write.” 

“ Father does not approve of music.” 

“ Do you know,” said Grace, “ that I never 
learnt until after I was married ? J ohn taught 
me my notes. I verily believe our most 
serious quarrels weu over those minims and ' 
crotchets.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


67 


“ Ah, thou wast very stupid,” said Mr. 
Hanbury. 

“Thou wert very impatient, and would 
vex me by making me learn scales instead of 
tunes. I wish father would let you learn, 
Dolly ; you used to have a capital voice.” 

“ I wish so too,” replied Dorothy. “ Mother 
begged for it,” she added, turning to Captain 
Verschoyle ; “ she does not condemn music.” 

“ I am quite sure of that. What a sweet 
woman your mother is, Miss Fox ! I am quite 
in love with her. You are wonderfully likelier.” 

The inflection in his voice made Dorothy’s 
heart beat, but she determined to conquer 
this time ; so she answered, “ There is no- 
body in the world like mother. I was so 
amused when thou mistook Judith for her, 
but Judith was quite angry with thee.” 

“ And well she might be. I cannot fancy 
what induced me to commit such a stupid 
blunder.” 

“ Oh, no ! it was not stupid ; we all love 
dear old Judith, but mother — ” and she 
stopped, her sweet eyes expressing the love it 
seemed impossible to speak of. 

“What will you do when you leave her?” 
said Captain Verschoyle, asking the first 
question that came uppermost, in his desire 
that the lovely face should not be turned 
away from him. 

“ Leave her !” she repeated ; “ what dost 
thou mean ?” 

“ I mean when you are married. You in- 
tend to marry some day, do you not?” 

Again the vexed feeling took possession of 
Dorothy that he had heard something of 
Josiah Crewdson. 

“ I — I don’t know,” she said. 

“ But / know ; and who, I wonder, will 
be — or perhaps is — the enviable man for- 
tunate enough to secure your love?” 

“Nobody!” cried Dorothy, defiantly; “I 
do not care for, any one, nor shall I.” 

“ Hush, hush !” laughed Captain Vers- 
choyle, amused at her earnestness ; “ don’t 
let me hear such treason. Here is Miss Fox,” 
he said, turning to Grace, who had joined 
them, “ declaring she never intends marrying 
for love. I tell her it is too cruel to announce 
her decision. Notwithstanding, we know by 
sad experience that women have struck 
against being troubled with hearts in our 
day.” 

“ Captain Verschoyle !” exclaimed Grace, 
affecting to be horrified by his remark, “ oh, 
this is a stigma we will not sit calmly under ! 
Come, mother, come, Dolly, let us combine 
our forces, and defend our woman’s nature.” 

“ Vain, utterly vain, my dear Mrs. Han- 


bury; for, has it not been proclaimed in 
every matrimonial market-place throughout 
the land, that the god of Love is dethroned, 
and the god of Riches reigneth in his stead?” 

“ And yet,” said Patience, “ you will find 
that as of old, so now there remain still, thou- 
sands who have not ‘bowed the knee to Baal.’” 

“ What you say may be true, Mrs. Fox,” 
replied Captain Verschoyle, laughing, “ but I 
only wish you would tell me where to find 
these idealistic young ladies, willing to share 
our joys and sorrows, and our small incomes.” 

“Where !” exclaimed Grace ; “why, every 
nice girl you meet would do so for the man 
she loves. You know it is all very well put- 
ting it upon us women, but when a man 
says, ‘ I cannot ask her to give this up for 
me,’ is it not the echo of, * I cannot give it 
up for her?’ Of course, I do not mean that 
a man without an income, or any prospect of 
making one, is to ask a girl to share nothing 
because they love each other ; no honourable 
man would do that. What I condemn is, the 
name of wife and helpmate being separated. 
Don’t you think that two people will love 
each other better, and be more to each other 
at the end ol five or ten years, struggling to- 
gether, than if they had lived apart, discon- 
tented, and rebelling against Providence for 
not being kinder to them ? Eventually they 
marry, but by this time perhaps they have 
ceased to be necessary to each other. At all 
events, the wife will have lost some of the 
sweetest memories a woman can recall, in 
having lessened the anxieties and eased the 
cares of the man she loves.” 

“ Spoken like an oracle, Grace,” said John 
Hanbury. “ Should business fail, thou ’shalt 
go about advocating the rights of women.” 

“ I know nothing about our rights,” she 
answered. “ I take our position from what 
we were created for, and therefore, what to 
the best of our abilities we ought to fulfil. 

‘ God said, It is not good that man should be 
alone, I will make him an help meet for him,’ 
and He made woman. I am quite contented 
with that. Educate us well, and so com- 
pletely, that we are fit to be companions, 
confidants, and advisers to our men ; but de- 
fend us from being fellow-students, rivals in 
examinations, and compeers in professions.” 

“ I quite agree with thee, Grace,” said Pa- 
tience. “ From that day which sees woman’s 
(so-called) rights established, her influence 
will decline.” 

Captain Verschoyle gave a comically rueful 
look as he exclaimed with a sigh, “ Well, all 
I know is, I wish some nice girl would only fall 
in love with me. I am sure she would turn 


6S 


DOROTHY FOX. 


me into an awfully nice fellow. There,” he con- 
tinued, “ is Miss Fox smiling at such an idea. 
You think the thing impossible, do you not?” 

“Yes, rather,” she answered, responding 
to her thoughts, and not thinking how her 
reply might be taken. 

“ That's right, Dorothy. Uphold your 
principles by always speaking your mind,” 
said John Hanbury, laughing. 

“ Oh, but John, thou must not — I meant — ” 

“ No, no, never mind !” replied Mr. Han- 
burv, “ let Captain Verschyole read it his 
own way; for you and I have read of the 
pride that apes humility, have we not, little 
Dolly? and we have heard of ‘ Early to bed 
and early to rise/ and not only so, but we are 
told ‘ to practise what we know.’ ” 

“ That is a shabby sort of way of informing 
us that thou art tired, John Hanbury,” said 
Grace, rising. “Will nine o’clock be too 
early for you, Captain Verschoyle?” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ Then, good night.” 

“ Fare thee well,” said Patience. 

“Good night, Mrs. Fox ; good night, Miss 
Fox ; in order that you may sleep peacefully 
I will try and forgive you that thrust at me, 
although my vanity will, I fear, never recover 
the terrible blows it has received to-day.” 

Dorothy coloured. “ Thou hast nothing 
to forgive,” she answered, “ because thou did 
not understand what I meant.” 

“ Oh, very well 1 Then I shall expect a 
further explanation. Good night.” 

The next morning, before Captain Vers- 
choyle left Fryston Grange, it was arranged 
that on his return to town he should pay the 
HanBurys another visit. Dorothy and Grace 
went as far as the station with him, and 
while Mr. Hanbury was receiving some house- 
hold commission from Grace, Captain Vers- 
choyle said, — “ Miss Fox, you milst not run 
away before I come again. Remember, I have 
not had that explanation yet.” 

“ Thou must please promise me to forget 
it,” she answered, gravely. 

“So I will if” — and he paused until 
Dorothy looked up inquiringly — “ thou wilt 
promise not to forget me.” 

The whistle of the train sounded, there 
was only time to jump in. “ Good-bye,” 
“ Good-bye,” a wave of the hand, and Captain 
Verschoyle and John Hanbury were on their 
road to London. 

Grace and Dorothy re-seated themselves in 
the pony carriage, and were very near home, 
when the former said, — 

“ Why, surely, my Dolly has lost her 
tongue. What is the child thinking of?” 


“Thinking of!” echoed Dorothy — “me — 
oh, I do not know.” 

Then, fearing that speech did not entirely 
agree with her principles always to speak the 
plain truth, she said, as fresh colour mounted 
to her cheeks — “ At least, I do know ; I was 
thinking of Charles Verschoyle.” 

CHAPTER XV. — A PIC-NIC AT DYNECOURT. ^ 

On the fifth morning after Captain Ver- 
schoyle left Dyne Court, Mr. Ford did not make 
his appearance at the breakfast table. His 
man came to say his master was not quite well, 
and would be glad if Mr. Dynecourt would 
go to him when it was convenient to do so. 

Mr. Dynecourt found the old gentleman 
threatened with an attack of bronchitis. “ Mr. 
Dynecourt,” he said, “ I sent to ask you to 
do me a favour, that is, while I am detained 
in my own apartment, will you act in my 
place, just consider our friendV^our guests, 
see they have all they want, and that they 
are happy and comfortable ? I dare say I 
shall be all right in a couple of days, and 
in the meantime you must ask the ladies to 
pay me a charitable visit here, and cheer me 
up a little.” 

Mr. Dynecourt consented, sat and chatted 
with Mr. Ford, and then, at his desire, went 
to look after the arrangements made for the 
day’s amusement. Another pic-nic had 
been decided upon, and Mr. Ford would not 
hear of its being put off on his account. 
“ And be sure,” he said, “ that you lqok after 
my favourite, Miss Audrey, and see she does 
not over exert herself ; we allowed her to do 
too much last time.” 

Each one was both concerned and sorry 
to hear of their host’s indisposition ; but Dr. 
Morcambe assured them it was nothing ; only, 
with Mr. Ford’s experience of how much de- 
pended on primary caution* he was acting 
most prudently, and the result would be seen 
by his joining them in a few days. 

Lady Laura had intended doing violence 
to her feelings by forming one of the party, 
that she might look after her son’s interest, 
and not permit any tete-a-tete between Miss 
Bingham and Mr. Dynecourt. Now her plans 
were suddenly altered, for, of course, she 
must stay with Mr. Ford. “ I shall read the 
paper to him,” she thought, “ and talk about 
Audrey.” By the way, she must go and see 
him before they set off. “ How provoking 
of Charles to leave just at this time, com- 
pletely throwing that girl at Mr. Dynecourt ! 
Audrey must contrive to keep them apart, 
secure his attentions, and leave Miss Bing- 
ham to the curate ; no harm can come of 


DOROTHY FOX. 


69 


that, for the man has not a word to say for 
himself out of the pulpit.” 

Thus decided, her ladyship proceeded to 
her daughter’s room, and found her array- 
ing herself in the muslin dress that on the 
former occasion she had refused to wear. 

“That is right, my dear; that dress is 
quite nice enough for ?iow. You must go 
and see Mr. Ford before you start. I think 
I will go up, and say you are so concerned 
you wanted to stay at home, but I knew he 
would be uneasy at depriving you of any 
enjoyment ; or, perhaps, you had better say 
it yourself. Of course, you will offer to 
remain, though you need not do so really, 
because I think it will be better for me to 
have a quiet day with him.” 

“ I shall not only offer to remain, but I 
shall willingly do so, if it gives Mr. Ford any 
pleasure,” returned Audrey. “ I am going 
up now to sit with him until it be time for 
us to go.” 

“Then, after you have paid your visit, I 
will pay mine. I hope there will be no 
necessity for you to remain at home, as I 
believe I could do much more by bearing 
him company ; and, Audrey, just see that 
Mr. Dynecourt does not take possession of 
Miss Bingham. If you can manage it, secure 
him for yourself ; if not, join them whenever 
you see him attempt to stroll off with her. 
Charles may never have another such oppor- 
tunity, and, though from his obstinate stupi- 
dity he deserves to lose her, it would be a 
great annoyance to me.” 

“ Very well,” replied her daughter, “ then 
I am to sacrifice myself, and engage the com- 
panionship of Mr. Dynecourt as much as in 
me lies.” 

“ Exactly so. You need not put yourself 
out of the way to make yourself agreeable.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Audrey. “ Do not 
fear; I will endeavour to place the young 
man and myself on a proper footing.” 

She went off smiling to herself, and knock- 
ing at the door of Mr. Ford’s private sitting- 
room, demanded admission. 

“ Now this is very kind of you, my dear 
young lady, not to stand on ceremony, but 
come up like an old friend.” 

“ I want to know if I can do anything for 
you,” said Audrey. “Will you let me stay 
and read to you ? I have had very little ex- 
perience, but I think I can promise to do as 
much nursing as you require.” 

“ What ! and deprive everybody else of the 
pleasure of your company ! Why, I should 
never dare to meet their angry faces again. 
No, no ; you go and help my friend Dynecourt 


in entertaining the rest, and then I shall rest 
contented, being certain all is going on well.” 

“ Mamma is coming to offer herself as a 
companion,” said Audrey. “ You know she 
does not care for pic-nics.” 

“ If I am not depriving her of enjoyment, 
I shall be delighted to see her ; and when 
you come back you will tell me of all you 
have seen and done ?” 

“ May I come and make tea for you ?” said 
Audrey ; “ or would it be too much worry ?” 

“ On the contrary, I only stay up here to 
secure myself against draughts, and talking 
too much ; but if you will promise to come 
and see me, I shall look forward to a pleasant 
evening.” 

After a little time she bade him good-bye ; 
went down and told her mother Mr. Ford 
would be pleased to see her, adding, “ I am 
going to make tea, and spend the evening with 
him, and give him an account of our day.” 

Lady Laura was delighted. “ Nothing 
could be better. It is just what I should 
have managed myself. Really, Audrey, you 
have a great deal of me in you.” 

Audrey checked the answer she was 
prompted to return, bidding her mother 
adieu at once, that she might not be tempted 
to give vent to a little sarcasm which she 
found hard to repress. 

Miss Verschoyle rendered such strict obe- 
dience to her mother’s wishes, that she and 
Mr. Dynecourt were companions the whole 
day long. Mrs. Winterton, Miss Trefusis, 
and the General had arranged a wonderful 
botanical search. Miss Bingham and the 
Rev. Robert Kirby (whose loquacity would 
have disgusted Lady Laura) followed their 
example, and, they said, their footsteps, but 
the fates did not permit them to meet — a 
circumstance which did not seem to affect 
their enjoyment in the least. On this occa- 
sion they were all pedestrians, and certainly, 
from the time after luncheon when they 
separated and divided themselves into three 
sets, each had but a very hazy notion of the 
other’s movements. 

To Geoffrey Dynecourt the day sped swiftly. 
At first he would not question himself too 
closely as to what this new, delicious feeling 
might be, — not deep enough yet to be dis- 
tracted by doubts, or tormented by fears. He 
onl£ knew, wherever she was he was content 
to be. He could listen to her, talk to her, and, 
at the end of hours spent together, he only 
sighed when the time for him to leave her drew 
nigh. Constantly he wondered whether she 
shared in these impressions. He knew she 
always met him with a smile of welcome, 


7 <> 


DOROTHY FOX. 


seemed pleased when he joined her, sorry 
when they parted, and, in many a soft look 
from those wonderful eyes, showed her 
interest and sympathy. In imagination he 
clothed her with every grace ; every pure and 
noble feeling a woman could possess, he 
freely granted her. He seemed to have 
placed her in the sanctuary of his heart, and 
dared not, even in thought, approach nearer 
her than the outer courts, where he could 
gaze upon her image. 

Incapable of disguise where his feelings 
were concerned, Audrey soon noticed the 
almost reverential manner he at times as- 
sumed towards her, and, instead of laughing 
to scorn the good he imputed to her, she felt 
a strange wish that he might not be unde- 
ceived. She said to herself that she wanted 
him to think well of her, and she tried in 
every way to strengthen the impression, until 
Geoffrey Dynecourt felt himself hourly be- 
coming more intoxicated by her witchery. 

Could it be that she felt the same in- 
fluence? If not, why did her eyes soften 
when they met his, and her voice sink as if 
its tones were tuned for his ears alone ? Oh, 
she had given him signs that, unless love 
had prompted her, would never have been 
visible from one so proud, so noble, so far 
exalted above any dream he had ever before 
formed of womankind. 

The whole of that day Audrey had been 
thoroughly herself ; devoid of all arts, save 
such as were natural to a girl who desired to 
pi ase. That desire seemed to spring from 
an entirely new impulse. 

“What a happy day I have spent!” ex- 
claimed Mr. Dynecourt. 

“ And yet you are sighing,” said Audrey in 
her soft voice. 

“ Yes : sighing because it is over. Are 
you not sorry when a great pleasure comes 
to an end ?” 

“Has it been a great pleasure?” she 
asked. “ Last time you would not go with us.” 

“ Last time you went, remember how little 
I knew of you.” 

“ Oh, that is all very good, but I only 
know your staying away made me cross.” 

“ And now, would you care if I stayed 
away?” 

Audrey did not answer for a moment ; 
then she intended giving some laughing 
reply ; but, when she met his eager gaze, she 
gave him a long look of loving reproach, and 
the quick blood mounted to her cheeks. 

“ Oh, Audrey ! Miss Verschoyle !” 

But, before he could say more, she ex- 
claimed — “ There is Miss Bingham ! I am 


so glad we have met them. Let us hurry 
on that we may return together respectably, 
after having lost our chaperones.” 

Miss Bingham (who had a little whole- 
some dread of her aunt) said, “ We will not 
say we have only just met.” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Audrey ; for from 
the terrace Lady Laura advanced to meet 
them smiling delightfully, and kissing her 
daughter in acknowledgment of the visible 
obedience with which she had followed out 
her instructions. 

“And have you had a pleasant day, my 
dears ?” 

“Oh! a charming day!” exclaimed Miss 
Bingham. 

Audrey and Mr. Kirby expressed the 
pleasure each had enjoyed. Only Mr. Dyne- 
court was silent. He could not make out 
Audrey’s manner ; the evident wish to hurry 
on and join the others; the sudden change 
from the low soft tone, which spoke more 
than the words she said, to one of raillery 
and banter. Why should she laugh at Miss 
Bingham, tease Mr. Kirby, and pretend all 
the time they had been absent Mr. Dyne- 
court had been most' anxious about them ? 
It jarred on him, until he wondered what it 
could mean. It fell like a cloud over the 
past, and he seemed to discover the first 
trail of the serpent in the Eden of his love. 

“ Just as I expected,” thought Lady Laura ; 
“ he is annoyed at having been kept from 
Miss Bingham all day. If I had not foreseen 
this, there is no knowing what mischief might 
have been done ; for I have no doubt, in her 
heart the girl is a little piqued at Charles 
leaving ; and, of course, his rival would make 
stock out of that piece of stupidity. Nobody 
could believe a son of mine would do such a 
thing.” 

As she looked up to say something more, 
she noticed Audrey turn round, and seem- 
ingly (for they were too far off for her to 
hear) ask for some flowers Mr. Dynecourt 
was carrying. He gave them to her, and 
then she returned a few sprays of the heather 
to him, which he received with a somewhat 
stiff bow. 

“The bear!” said Lady Laura, as she 
dropped her eye-glass ; “ he evidently cannot 
control his temper, and is stupid enough to 
show his mortification. Well ! I am not 
surprised ; for I fancied he was not over- 
stocked with sense, when I heard some 
Quixotish tale of his giving up his property 
to pay the debts, as if he could not go on as 
his ancestors had done.” 

Marshall, as she dressed her young lady, 


DOROTHY FOX. 


speculated upon what had gone wrong at the 
pic-nic : generally Miss Verschoyle gave her 
the benefit of her triumphs and disappoint- 
ments, in both of which Marshall sympathised 
or exulted. 

“ I shall not wear any ornaments to-night, 
Marshall ; — put some of that heather in my 
hair, and give me a bunch of it to fasten 
here. That will do.” 

“ A red rose would look much better with 
this white dress, Miss ; heather does not 
show any colour at night.” 

“ Never mind — do as I tell you.” 

“ Oh ! you are dressed,” said Lady Laura, 
opening the door. “Then go and arrange 
my toilette, Marshall. I will come to you in 
a few minutes.” 

As soon as the maid had departed, Lady 
Laura began her questioning, confiding to 
her daughter how necessary her caution had 
been ; — “ for I never saw more evident dis- 
pleasure than Mr. Dynecourt displayed.” 

“ About what?” said Audrey. 

“ Why, at your not allowing him to walk 
with Miss Bingham. Did he contrive to be 
alone with her much ?” 

“No, I do not think he spoke to her 
unless I was present.” 

“Excellent! You are getting quite a 
diplomatist, Audrey.” 

“ What a pity that you should only discover 
my talent when I have no further need of it !” 

“ How do you mean, my dear, — no further 
need for it?” 

“ Why, surely, if I marry this rich man, I 
shall be able to afford to be as straight- 
forwardly frank and unpleasantly car-did as 
I please ; there will be no need for ieceit or 
fourberie then.” 

“My dear, don’t speak of Mr. Ford as 
* this rich man ;’ it does not matter with me, 
of course, but it is a bad habit to get into.” 

“ Oh ! is it ? I thought you honoured 
people by naming what you valued them for.” 

Lady Laura fancied from her daughter’s 
tone a discussion had best be avoided ; so 
she said — 

“ I have not seen much of Mr. Ford alone ; 
for Dr. Morcambe stayed to luncheon, and 
after that he had letters to write. He seems 
to be very much better, though. One thing I 
discovered — he has no relations, except dis- 
tant cousins ; so, of course, his estates would 
be left to his wife, if he died without children.” 

“ Did he say so ? ” 

“ Now, my dear Audrey, is it likely I 
should speak on such a subject to him ? I 
was thinking, perhaps you had better be 
rather delightful to Mr. Dynecourt, because 


7i 


through him you will easily get to know all 
the desirable people in the neighbourhood.” 

“ Do you really think so? You know,” she 
added, in a tone of sarcasm, “ that he has lost 
all his money, and calls himself a beggar ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! I don’t want you to make a great 
friend of him ; still, he might be of service.” 

“ Then you may depend upon rny cultivat- 
ing him ; but, remember, I consider you re- 
sponsible for all that may come of it.” 

“Why, what could come of it, Audrey?” 

“ Oh, I cannot tell : such very odd things 
happen sometimes to penniless people. 
Though when they belong to the crane de la 
creme , they have no excuse for not behaving 
better.” 

“ My dear Audrey, you are very odd this 
evening.- Are your spirits depressed? You 
had better have a little sal-volatile. I shall 
send Marshall with some ; for there goes the 
first dinner-bell, arid I have to dress.” 

Miss* Verschoyle didxnot join the ladies. 
After dinner, she sat alone in her own room, 
rather puzzled as to how she had displeased 
Mr. Dynecourt ; for she saw something had 
gone wrong. Though she wore the heather 
they had picked, he mounted none ; and she 
had given him a spray expressly for that pur- 
pose. She had a great mind to take hers out of 
her dress and not wear it any longer ; and then 
she smiled to think her tact was rather at fault. 

But the smile soon died away, and she got 
up, and resolutely ended her reverie bv pro- 
ceeding at once to Mr. Ford’s apartments. 
He was sitting in readiness for her; and 
Audrey, knowing the most certain way to 
insure his being amused was to get him 
on his favourite topic, after she had told 
him how far they had walked, where they had 
taken luncheon, and how sorry every one was 
at his absence, began asking him the his- 
tory of an old church in the neighbourhood, 
which Mr. Dynecourt had mentioned to her. 

This involved sending for several books, 
getting some photographs, &c., until tea 
arrived, and Audrey sat down to make it. 

Just then came a knock at the door, and 
Mr. Dynecourt presented himself. 

“ The very man 1 wanted to see,” ex- 
claimed Mr. Ford. “ Now, Miss Verschoyle, 
what do you say to my inviting him to join 
us ‘in the cup that cheers, but not inebriates ?’ 
Have I your permission ?” 

“ Most certainly,” she returned, politely. 

“ Oh, I came with a message from Lady 
Laura to Miss Verschoyle,” said Mr. Dyne- 
court, hesitatingly ; “ but when I have taken 
back the answer, if you will permit me to re- 
turn, I shall be so delighted;” and he looked 


7 2 


DOROTHY FOX. 


appealingly at Audrey for a little further 
invitation. 

During her absence, all his annoyance had 
vanished, and he was now alternately blam- 
ing his bad temper, and wondering why it 
had been aroused. Because she had sud- 
denly changed her manner, he had become 
irritable and unreasonable. Now he longed 
to see her, to show her his penitence. What 
an ill-mannered brute she must think him ! 
She would be disgusted with him, and per- 
haps think no more of him. 

Thus exaggerating his offence, as he had 
hers, he proceeded to the drawing-room. As 
he feared, she was not there ; but, fortunately 
for him, Mr. Kirby had been obliged to 
leave, and Miss Bingham was sitting alone. 
She beckoned him at once to her side to ask 
him if General Trefusis had made any com- 
ments on their losing his party. 

To prevent the conversation reaching Mrs. 
Winterton’s ears, it was carried on nearly in 
a whisper : so that when Lady Laura entered 
the room, the first thing she noticed was the 
two heads in alarmingly close proximity, and 
her fears were further aroused by Miss Bing- 
ham getting very red as her ladyship came 
suddenly upon them. 

“ You are looking so tired, love, don’t you 
think you would be wise to come and sit in 
this nice easy chair?” 

“ No, thank you, Lady Laura : this ottoman 
is very comfortable, and I am not tired.” 

Lady Laura said no more. She sat down 
by Miss Trefusis, and began telling her of 
som^ wonderful ferns her cousin, Lady Ho- 
ne* ia Camden, had collected. Still she kept 
her eyes on the two delinquents, who again 
settled into their tete-a-tete. 

Miss Trefusis explained some peculiar 
mode of rearing ferns an uncle of hers had 
adopted ; and when Lady Laura exclaimed, 
“ Now, you must tell me all that over again ; 
for I shall write every word of it to Honoria 
to-morrow,” she naturally supposed that her 
ladyship was immensely interested. So she 
was in manner ; but her thoughts were con- 
centrated on the couple opposite. 

“ I can see he does not want to be inter- 
rupted, by the anxious way he keeps looking 
at the door,” she thought ; “and I do not like 
to see her so very talkative and confidential.” 
Miss Bingham’s story of how she nearly 
tumbled into the brook from an immense 
stone turning over, and how Mr. Kirby 
sprang to her assistance, fell on the ears of 
a listener as deaf to her tale as Lady Laura 
was to the explanations of Miss Trefusis. 

All Geoffrey D/necourt could think of 


was, whether Audrey would come down 
before she went to Mr. Ford, and, as he was 
almost certain she must have gone to him by 
this time, what possible pretext he could find 
for joining her. 

Imagine then his joy, when Lady Laura 
suddenly broke in upon her narrator, by say- 
ing, “ But will that mode apply to all ferns ? 
would it suit the — the — dear me ! I have for- 
gotten the name, that beautiful tall spreading 
one. What can its name be? how stupid lam!” 

“ Oh ! it suits them all,” returned Miss 
Trefusis. 

“Yes, dear; but I must be certain about 
this one, because Honoria would never for- 
give me for misleading her, and these — 
what is their name? — they are her especial 
favourites. Now, Audrey would remember 
in a moment. How tiresome ! for I might 
write perhaps to-night.” 

Then in her sweetest tone she said, “ Mr. 
Dynecourt, would it be asking you too much, 
just to go to Mr. Ford’s room, and ask 
Audrey if she would tell me the name of that 
fern we admired at Lady Honoria Camden’s ? 
I would not disturb you, but I want to write 
about it particularly to-night, and I cannot 
remember the name. I will entertain your 
companion until you return.” 

He could not believe his ears, and was so 
taken aback at the sudden realization of his 
hopes, that he almost stammered out his 
acquiescence. 

“ Ah ! as I thought, very unwilling to go ; 
you don’t come back here, my friend,” and 
by a dextrous movement of the chairs, she 
contrived that should she be obliged to re- 
linquish his seat, which she had ta|en, there 
was a vacant chair on the other side. 

Ten minutes elapsed, and then Mr. Dyne- 
court returned, saying, “Miss Verschoyle 
thinks you must mean the Osmunda, but 
she does not know ; and will you excuse me, 
Miss Bingham, as Mr. Ford has asked me to 
sit with him this evening ? ” 

“Dear girl!” inwardly exclaimed Lady 
Laura. “ That is very good of her to be so 
thoughtful for Charles ; for of course, it was 
her suggestion. One thing, she is perfectly 
secure of the old man ; and perhaps she is 
right not to see too much of him alone. 
For Audrey’s temper is very peculiar. In 
that she takes after her father. Well then ! 
now there is no need for further exertion on 
my part. I wonder what made him accept 
the invitation ? Mr. Ford may have lent him 
money ; or else he has some scheme in his 
mind ; but I think if he pits himseff against me, 
he will have to cry ‘ Peccavi ’ before long.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


73 


:p_a_:r,t ti. 


CHAPTER XVI. — THE SPRIG OF HEATHER. 

3E little tea- 
party, as old- 
fash ioned 
Mr. Ford 
called it, was 
a success. “I 
don’t think I 
have enjoyed 
anything so 
much as this 
for a very 
long time,” 
he said, “ we 
all look so 
homely.” 

“There is 
s o mething 
d e 1 ightful 
about tea,” 
replied Au- 
drey, “it al- 
ways makes one so confidential. I re- 
member when I was a child, and Marshall’s 
friends came to tea with us, how I used 
to open my ears, and be entertained with 
their gossip. Those times are the only 
pleasant recollections I have of childhood, 
except Charlie’s holidays, which were always 
a series of red-letter days. A London child 
without companions has not many plea- 
sures. Except at her luncheon, which was my 
dinner, I seldom saw mamma. My mornings 
were spent with my governess, and the rest 
of the day Marshall and I battled out toge- 
ther. She was very good to me, and when I 
was ill, I could not bear her out of my sight. 
Poor mamma always hated a sick-room, and 
kept away from us when we were ailing with 
any child’s complaint, fearing it might turn out 
to be small-pox, which she has a dread of.” 

“ Did she really ?” said Mr. Fold, “dear me ! 
I can remember how my gooa old mother 
used to wait upon me hand and foot, if my 
finger only ached. Father was very well 
while nothing was the matter ; but any one 
who was sick went to mother.” 

“ Had you any sisters or brothers?” asked 
Audrey. 

“ Yes, my dear ; but they all died early. 
So did my father and mother, and I was left 
alone in the world before I was twenty.” 

“Loneliness is a feeling which causes us 
many a heart-ache,” said Mr. Dynecourt. 

“ Very true, but my back ached too often 


in those days to indulge in any such reflec- 
tions. There is no cure for sorrow like em- 
ployment.” 

“ I quite believe that,” said Mr. Dynecourt. 
“ When I am idle, I see life in a new light, 
with nothing but its greys, browns, and 
neutral tints.” 

Audrey looked at him, “ Oh ! not now, 
Miss Verschoyle, I never saw so much rose 
colour before, and I really was in great need 
of it, for I was very gloomy when I came 
here.” 

“ Now, that speech has done me more good 
than anything I have had to-day !” exclaimed 
Mr. Ford ; “and it is very kind of you to say 
it.” 

“ It is much kinder of you to give him 
the occasion for saying it,” laughed Audrey, 
taking out some knitting she had brought with 
her. “Now, Mr. Dynecourt, entertain us, tell 
us some story or adventure; in short, be 
amusing.” 

“ I cannot, I am too happy.” 

“ Does happiness then take with you the 
form of silence ? ” 

“ This does ; I am afraid to speak lest I 
should break the spell.” 

“ In that you are wise. My motto is, 1 En- 
joy all you can in the present without asking 
or expecting anything from the future.’ ” 

He was about to answer her, but she put 
her finger to her lip. She had spoken in a 
low tone, and Mr. Ford seemed wrapt in his 
own reflections, from which he roused himself, 
saying, “ Really, we are not very talkative ; a 
Quakers’ meeting.” 

“Did you ever know any Quakers ?” asked 
Audrey. 

“Yes, I have known several.” 

“Were they all very nice, good people?” 

u Oh ! I fancy much the same as other 
people are, some good and some bad. I 
have only known them in the way of business 
though, and must say, I have always had reason 
to think well of them. Why do you ask?” 

“Because of two gentle Quakers I met 
this summer in Devonshire, a mother and her 
daughter ; we became acquainted through an 
adventure my brother had;” and she related 
the circumstance of Captain Verschoyle’s faint- 
ness, of her curiosity, and the visit they paid to 
King’s-heart. “You would have been charmed 
with them, Mr. Ford, they were so simple and 
unaffected ; quite different from any people I 
ever met before. The daughter was sweetly 



74 


DOROTHY FOX. 


pretty, and had such an artless naive manner, 
that I seemed to be an old woman compared 
to her. Then it was so strange to hear them 
call us Charles Verschoyle and Audrey Vers- 
choyle ; somehow all trace of stiffness vanished, 
and we were like friends of long standing 
when we parted. I should very much like 
to see them again.” 

“ Perhaps you may, Plymouth is not so very 
far off ; and if you spent one happy week there, 
why not sometime or other try another?” 

“ I told Charles I should go there to spend 
my honeymoon.” 

“Even that may be accomplished,” said 
Mr. Ford, looking smilingly at her. “ I have 
never been to Plymouth, but I have often 
heard of its beauties. Was it the scenery 
you admired so much?” 

“ I did admire the scenery ;• but I believe 
the happiness I enjoyed really came from 
myself. I was quite contented, ready to be 
pleased with everything, and then so glad to 
be with Charlie.” 

“But,” said Mr. Dynecourt, “would not any 
place be charming under such circumstances? 
What happiness equals that of being with 
those we love ? You should have put your 
delight at being with your brother first, for 
from your love to him came contentment and 
the readiness to be pleased.” 

“ I do not know that,” she replied ; “ and 
if so, the question is how long would this 
tranquillity remain ?” 

“ With you, for ever.” 

“ Why do you say, 4 with you ?' ” 

14 Because I think you different from many 
other women, who might place in the other 
scale money and luxury ; but I am certain 
neither of these would compare, in your eyes, 
with love.” 

She did not look up from her knitting as 
she answered gravely, “ You have formed, I 
fear, a wrong estimate of my character. No 
one values the good things of this world 
more than I do.” 

“ Yes ; but you value love more ?” 

“ I have never set higher value on any love 
which I have experienced.” 

“ But in thought, in feeling, you know ; 
you imagine ” 

44 1 very seldom indulge in imagination ; I 
am afraid I am very matter-of-fact.” 

“ There I must ditier from you, my dear,” 
said Mr. Ford ; “you have, I think, a very 
imaginative nature. Your education may 
have caused you to look upon many things 
as so necessary to your comfort, that rather 
than give them up you would repress the 
luxury of great domestic happiness; but, I 


believe,” he added, looking fixedly at her, 
“if you consented to marry one for whom 
you did not feel the affection which under 
Other circumstances you woi^ld freely bestow, 
you would be guided by duty hnd try to make 
him happy.” 

“ I hope I should ; I think I should,” she 
said, raising her eyes with an effort, for she 
could not reply with that graceful ease which 
at other times was natural to her. 

“ Let us hope you will never have such a 
trial, Miss Verschoyle,” said Mr. Dynecourt. 

“ I do not think it would be a trial to me” 

“Not a trial to spend your life with one 
who had not your who e heart — one who 
could give you nothing but fine clothes and 
jewels, and could win nothing from you in 
return but duty or scanty gratitude ! I know 
you are only saying this for argument’s sake ; 
but even in jest I do not like to hear it from 
you” 

“ Then I will be silent,” she said gently ; 
“ only you must neither of you attribute too 
much goodness to me, for I fear I have a 
large measure of coarse clay in my compo- 
sition. I have made peace because I want 
you to do something for me. Look at this 
skein of wool.” 

Mr. Dynecourt came nearer to her, and 
seated himself on a footstool, while she 
wound the skein into a ball. The two made 
a charming picture. Their faces contrasted 
well — her dark hair, and eyes full of vivacity 
and fire; his thoughtful face, earnest and 
almost grave in expression. Sometimes they 
were silent, then a merry quip or jest would 
come, or the wool would get into a tangle, 
and cause much accusation, reproach, and 
defence. 

Their host looked at them, and repressed 
a sigh. If he carried out his intention of 
asking her to be his wife, what could he give 
her to compensate for that which then she 
would be deprived of? He had no doubt 
that whenever he offered himself to her she 
would accept him. He saw through her 
mother’s plans, and estimated her character 
exactly. He was not blind to Audrey’s love 
of money, show, position ; but under all this 
he caught glimpses of her true nature, and 
believed her to be true-hearted, loving, and 
unselfish. And as his eyes turned again 
upon the two, he thought how pleasant it was 
to be young, and to be able to inspire love 
for one’s self alone. Ah ! all that was buried 
and gone for him ; he sighed audibly. 

Audrey turned quickiy, saying, “ You are 
tired, Mr. Ford, and we are thoughtlessly 
making too much noise.” 


MR. DYNECOURT CAME NEARER TO HER, AND SEATED HIMSELF ON A FOOTSTOOL. 






' 

f 










■ 

. 






. ■ 






















DOROTHY FOX. 


77 


“ No, my dear, I like to see you merry. 
I have spent a very happy evening, and have 
to thank you both for it. It has been like 
home to me, and that is what I often sigh 
for, even in my own house. I was not born 
to grandeur, and sometimes it is rather irk- 
some to me.” 

“You must let us come again,” replied 
Audrey. “ I think it is time for me to leave 
you ; Dr. Morcambe will scold us if we let 
you talk too much, so good-night, and to- 
morrow I hope to see you almost well.” 

“Good-night, my dear,” he said, taking 
her hand, “ good-night.” 

“ I will see you to your room,” said Geoffrey; 
“ or will you return to the drawing-room ?” 

“No, I shall court some beauty-sleep to- 
night,” and they went out of the room 
together. 

As they crossed the corridor leading to 
her apartment, Mr. Dynecourt said sud- 
denly, “ Miss Verschoyle, have you pardoned 
my ill-temper?” 

“ What do you mean ?” she asked ; “ I have 
nothing to pardon.” 

“Yes, you have.” 

“Well, then you are forgiven,” she said 
smiling to him. 

“ Give me that heather as a token, that 
when you are gone I may feel happy.” 

“What have you done with the spray I 
did give you ? Have you lost it or thrown 
it away, for you did not wear it at dinner?” 
and she looked up saucily in his face ; but 
her eyes fell before the gaze she met, as he 
said, “ Yes, I did ; but I put mine nearer my 
heart than you did yours. Give me that 
bunch to — to keep with the rest.” 

“No, I cannot; I must say ‘ good-night * 
to you, or some one may see us.” 

“And if they did, and knew for what I 

was asking, would Oh, you must see 

whose image fills my heart ! I cannot hide 
it from you longer, and yet I dare not tell 
you. Give me those flowers if I have any 
hope,” and he held out his hands imploringly. 

“ Hush, hush ! they are coming out of the 
drawing-room. I dare not stay. Good-night.” 

He held her hands so tightly for a moment 
that the pain forced her to look up and see 
his face, so ashen in its paleness, and then 
he let her go and they parted. 

No one was in the room, and Audrey 
threw herself into her chair. She mused a 
little and then said to herself, “Audrey 
Verschoyle, I think you and I had better have 
a little conversation together. Do you intend 
being mistress of Dyne Court, or do you prefer 
to lose the chance by making a fool of your- 


self with a man whom it is impossible for you 
to marry? Yes, impossible ; don’t let there 
be any mistake there. All your life you 
have striven to secure a good match, and 
hitherto you have been disappointed. Now 
the prize is in your grasp, all your desires 
are within reach ; there is a fair prospect that 
the wealth you have sighed for will soon be 
offered to you. What do you intend to do ? 
To accept the old man, and marry him, of 
course. Yes ; but it is very hard not to 
enjoy a last flirtation before liberty goes. I 
need not disguise matters. If I could in- 
dulge myself, I would fall in love with 
Geoffrey Dynecourt; and he— I think he is 
beginning to care for me. Why do I feel so 
much compunction for this man? I never 
cared before what others suffered. I always 
said, I can take care of my heart, and other 
people must do the same. Wflat is there 
about him? He is not cleverer or better- 
looking than dozens of men I have met 
before, and yet he makes me different. I 
never feel tired of being with him. I blush 
like a school girl when he looks at me ; and 
I find myself thinking about him much 
oftener than is at all necessary. In such 
circumstances, most people would say, the 
less I saw of him the better. Would it be 
possible for me to fall seriously in love with 
a penniless man ? Most decidedly it would 
not. I should only return to the old life of 
keeping up appearances, to the everlasting 
envy, hatred, and malice which fill my heart. 
I almost wish I had never seen him. I find 
my heart is not quite dead yet, there is still a 
little weakness left in it; but my will is 
stronger than my heart, and I can control 
myself thoroughly, and I know that when 
this last spark is extinguished there will be 
nothing to rekindle. Had I not better let it 
burn itself to ashes? for love is the only 
luxury which Mrs. Richard Ford will require 
to deny herself. He will marry I daresay, 
and then no doubt I shall laugh at the ab- 
surdity which made me cast a thought at 
poverty when I have secured wealth. I said 
I need use no disguise to myself, and yet what 
a hypocrite I am ! for in my heart of hearts I 
know if I loved as I could love, I would throw 
prudence and Dyne Court to the winds and 
share the fortunes of the man I had chosen. 
But, thank goodness, I have no such feeling 
to contend with. I have made my election, 
and as I see that lie is taking our — our flirta- 
tion too seriously, I must show him his error. 
At all events, I will give him no further en- 
couragement.” And she ended her reflec- 
tions by ringing for her maid. 


78 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Lady Laura came in, shortly after, with 
Captain Verschoyle’s letter, saying he would 
return at once. This had put her ladyship 
into excellent spirits. “ I shall be so glad 
to have that responsibility off my hands, for 
Mr. Dynecourt’s attentions are becoming 
rather pointed;” and she gave an account of 
the drawing-room scene, coloured after her 
own vivid imagination. 

Audrey knew that it was not true that he 
had hung over Miss Bingham’s chair and de- 
voured every word she said ; while she, in 
her turn, had coquetted and blushed with 
delight at his speeches. Yet it annoyed her, 
made her feel uneasy, and as if she would 
like to revenge herself upon him for it. 

So she said she was very tired, and did not 
requre Marshall any more, and bade them 
both “ Good-night.” 

Then she drew aside the curtain and 
looked out on the moonlit scene, and her 
heart leapt up for joy to see some one gazing 
at her window. A moment after she thought, 
“ How imprudent of him ! some one else might 
notice him. Oh, that is all right,” for she 
sees he is smoking and walking to and fro. 

On such a lovely night, what more natural 
than that the late owner should moodily pace 
up and down, keeping company with his 
bitter reflections ? Audrey could see his 
face by the moon’s light, and it was pale and 
sad. Was this to be wondered at ? Surely 
fate had dealt very hardly with him — had 
taken all and left him nothing. Pity and 
love flew towards him from her heart, 
and forgetting all her new-made resolutions, 
she gently opened the window and the next 
time he came under it a sprig of heather 
fell at his feet. Audrey only waited to 
see him pick it up, passionately cover it 
with kisses, and almost before he could look 
up she had gone. Seeing her face in the 
glass she said to herself, “ Ah, well may my 
face be red ! But I think I had better not 
indulge in more reflections to-night.” 

CHAPTER XVII. PLAYING WITH EDGE TOOLS. 

While Geoffrey Dynecourt built castles 
in the air, in which he and Audrey were 
to dwell happily together for ever ; and 
Audrey Verschoyle, half-courted, half-thrust 
aside the new feeling which possessed her, 
because it was at once so sweet, and so bitter ; 
Richard Ford sat musing over his fire. In 
his hand he held one of those so-called por- 
traits cut out of black paper, very common 
at one time. It was a likeness of his dead 
wife, and as he sat gazing on it, his me- 
mory took him back to the day when it was 


made, nearly forty years ago. What a 
happy day they had, and how proud he 
was of his pretty Patty ; and she — why, she 
thought the king himself second in every- 
thing to Richard ! Ah ! how they had 
toiled together — Patty, never cast down, but 
always looking at things in a bright light. 
They used to call those their hard days, 
and speed their passing by making plans 
for the future, when the summit of their 
ambition would be gained, and they would 
possess a little home in a country place, 
such as Willesden or Hampstead, where they 
would keep fowls, and have a garden, with a 
bower where he could smoke his pipe, while 
she sat working at his side. By the time 
they were able to accomplish this, Pattie was 
sleeping in St. Clement’s churchyard. Oh ! if 
God had but been pleased to spare her. Ten 
years were such a short time to be together ; 
and what hardships she had borne during 
those years ! She might have married so 
much better, too, over and over again. There 
was Carter and Page both dying for her, and 
her old father threatening all sorts of things, 
if she did not give up that penniless Dick 
Ford ; but not she ; and when times were 
hard, and he told her he ought never to have 
brought her to poverty, how she would hang 
about him, and tell him she was happier 
than the richest lady in the land ! And the 
fire looks all blurred, as the old man with 
dim eyes nods his head, saying, “ She was 
an angel ! She was too good for this world !” 
But how he had changed since those days ! 
why, he wasn’t like the same man. Patty her- 
self would hardly know him, among so many 
grand folks, quite one of them too, and made 
as much fuss about as if he were a lord. Money 
was certainly a good thing, though it lost 
half its charm when you had nobody to share 
it with ; nobody to leave it to. He was 
only turned sixty. Many a man after that 
age lived to see a goodly family spring up 
around him. Yes, he must marry, it was his 
duty; his position seemed to demand it of 
him, and certainly nowhere could he find one 
better suited to be his wife than Miss Ver- 
schoyle. He knew he should often vex her 
by mistakes in speech and manner; he 
knew, however pleasant her society might be 
to him, he was but a poor companion for 
her. He said to himself, he was not sup- 
posing for a moment, that when she married 
him, it would be lor aught but his money ; 
and then he thrust aside something which 
asked whether, when the riches she desired 
were her own, she would not sigh for free- 
dom ; would she not come to regard him as 


DOROTHY FOX. 


79 


a burden from which death alone could 
free her? No, no ! he must have common 
sense, and not expect to be loved like a 
young man ; he must be content with re- 
spect and esteem, which he believed Audrey 
would always accord to him. And another 
thing in his favour was his belief, that on 
love merely she set little value. Had it 
been otherwise, surely she would have long 
since secured, what must have been fre- 
quently offered to her. So he decided that 
he would wait until his other guests had 
departed, beg Lady Laura to remain another 
day, and then ask Audrey to be his wife. 

Before Miss Verschoyle and Mr. Dynecourt 
met again, Audrey had seriously taken her- 
self to task for giving way to her imprudent 
impulse. She never raised her eyes when 
she said “Good morning;” nor did she 
return the pressure he gave her hand. She 
complained that she had a headache, and 
therefore took her breakfast in silence. She 
knew Geoffrey Dynecourt was watching her, 
by the alacrity with which her wants were 
anticipated ; but beyond these attentions, he 
did not intrude himself upon her notice ; and 
he allowed her to leave the breakfast-room 
without following her. 

Some fears, and a shade of disappointment 
did trouble him ; but he pressed them down 
with the heather, lying warm at his heart, 
sweet token that she loved him ; for, after 
having asked the heather as a sign, she would 
surely never have thrown the precious gift to 
him, unless her love was all his own. 

Oh ! how bitter it was to him now to know 
that his house and lands were in the posses- 
sion of a stranger ! For her to be mistress 
over that which had hitherto held the first 
place in his heart, would be happiness 
indeed. The idea that this loss could make 
any difference to her in giving him the love 
he longed for, never once occurred to him. 
True, he had hardly dared to hope for such a 
treasure. He had nothing that could make her 
love him. He was not half good enough, or 
clever enough. Had he been a duke or an earl 
he would have asked her love as humbly as 
he did now, and have thought himself as little 
worthy of it. That such a priceless gift could 
be bought, could be bartered away for money, 
never occurred to him. To him she was a 
very Una, walking unharmed and unsullied 
amid the world’s snares. 

In the fortnight they had spent together at 
Dyne Court they had seen more of each 
other than they could have done in years of 
ordinary London visiting life. Audrey soon 
knew that the sage maxims with which she 


generally favoured her companions would be 
distasteful to this man, with his exalted ideal 
of what woman should be, and his belief that 
in her he saw the reflection of the image his 
fancy had painted. She had made the most 
of the mornings spent together, when Mr. 
Ford was in company with his steward. 
Every evening while the gentlemen sipped 
their wine, from which prosy ordeal Geoffrey 
made an early escape, the two wandered 
together through the shady avenues ; hushing 
their voices, because all around was so still, 
saying little in words, but by every lingering 
look and half-drawn happy sigh, telling a tale 
more eloquent than the most ready speech 
ever told, and tightening each loop and mesh 
of the net, from which one at least never 
wished to. escape. 

Circumstances had prevented Geoffrey 
Dynecourt from seeing much of fashionable 
society. Except when he was a very young 
man, he had never had a positive flirtation ; 
consequently he was quite unskilled in that 
dangerous warfare of art and coquetry so 
generally indulged in. He only knew that he 
had disguised nothing from her, who had 
aroused these new feelings in him, and all he 
had offered she had accepted. The refusal to 
give him the heather was the first positively 
painful doubt which had crossed his mind, and 
while his heart was yet cast down, hardly 
daring to hope again, and battling with 
despondency, the prize fell at his feet, and 
proclaimed him victor. 

To Audrey such a character as Geoffrey 
Dynecourt’s was entirely new. Playing at 
love-making had been one of her earliest ac- 
complishments, and she had generally found 
the men she had practised her arts upon equal 
to herself in the knowledge of these pleasant 
deceptions. True, it had happened that at 
times one of the combatants had been 
wounded ; but what mattered that to the 
other ? it only showed off his or her superior 
skill, and one consolation there was — the hurt 
was a mere scratch which would soon be 
healed, and leave the sufferer wiser than be- 
fore. It was well known that no deception 
took such an earnest form as when two people 
knew that nothing could possibly come of it. 
Audrey used to declare no flirtations ever 
equalled those with ineligible men and 
younger sons — “ the others said their heart- 
broken speeches and rapturous compliments 
with fear and trembling, doubting lest in 
some underhand way you might take ad- 
vantage of them. They therefore took fright 
and went off like rusty muskets when you 
least expected them.” 


So 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Had it not been for the certainty that she 
was to marry Mr. Ford, Audrey would have 
had no qualms of conscience about the earnest 
looks, the lingering adieux, the low-toned 
conversations ; but she wished to retain 
Geoffrey Dynecourt as a friend after she 
married. “ And I am rendering that next to 
impossible,” she thought, as she sat in her room 
reflecting on the previous night’s episode ; 
“ for old men’s wives had better not choose 
their friends from former lovers ; ‘ Pity is 
akin to love,J and Mrs. Richard Ford must 
live without 'either of those soft sympathies. 
It is of no use sitting brooding over it,” she 
continued, rising hastily. “ I had better take 
a stroll; and exorcise this dark mood. I hope 
no one will see me go out, and I’ll get a good 
spin, and come back better pleased with my- 
self perhaps, and the world generally.” 

While putting on her hat she wondered 
how she could get out into the walk which 
she saw from her window. “ I think there 
must be a door at the bottom of the side 
staircase, or how did he get there last night ? 
I’ll try.” Her efforts were successful, and, 
as she gently closed the door, she congratu- 
lated herself that no one had seen her depart. 
She did not hear a heart leap up, and a 
voice say, “ My darling ! I knew you would 
come here to meet me.” She did not see 
the passionate eyes that had waited so long 
for their light to appear, now lovingly rest 
upon her. She did not know that Geoffrey 
Dynecourt was following her, exulting more 
and more, as he saw her turn towards the 
“ Saint’s Well,” for was not that the place 
where all true lovers went to pledge their vows? 

“ A place for lovers, and for lovers only,” 
seems best to describe “St. Hieretha’s Well,” 
shaded as it was from the glaring light by 
trees, whose branches lovingly entwined and 
interlaced each other. The moss-coVered 
ground formed a carpet, on which two fan- 
tastic old stumps stood side by side, fashioned 
into a rude sort of elbowed seat ; ferns 
flourished in rich luxuriance, peeping out 
from every nook and cranny ; and a fringe of 
hartstongue lapped round the tiny pool of 
water, where hung the mystic cup, dedicated 
to the lips of true love alone. 

Audrey had never been here before, and 
to her hot, chafing spirit, the cool retreat was 
welcome indeed. It was impossible to turn 
her back at once on such a quiet rest ; she 
must sit here awhile and ease her burden of 
discontent. So she took possession of the seat, 
but before many minutes had passed, the man 
whose presence she at that moment least de- 
sired stood before her, knelt by her side, took 


both her hands in his, and looking into her 
face, said, “ Audrey, my darling ! ” Then a 
great wave seemed to sweep over her heart, 
and she recognised one before whom she 
was awed and abashed. The words she 
would have spoken died away upon her 
lips, as he put his arm round her, saying 
tenderly, “We have no need of words to 
tell our love, our hearts have spoken to each 
other, and made their choice before they 
even whispered to us their sweet secret. Oh ! 
Audrey, my own, how good God has been 
to me ! I had been doubting Him because 
I had lost worldly riches, and all the time 
He was going to give me you, a precious 
treasure that the whole world must covet; 
making you love me, when I thought I 
should have tq worship you afar off all the 
days of my life. How could I dare hope for 
any more ? You who might choose any one ! 
Nay, dearest, it is true. I had no right to 
dream of being chosen by you ; but since you 
love me, and have said you will be mine, I 
walk upon air.!” 

“ No, no ! ” were the first words she found 
power to utter. 

“ Not in words ; and, darling, do not think 
I presume in saying so. Oh ! Audrey, I 
will beg, entreat for every word and look ! 
No slave ever more humbly asked a great 
boon at his master’s hand than I will at your 
feet. It is only because I know, come what 
may you have given me your heart, that mine 
refuses to be silent, and will proclaim aloud 
its passionate delight.” 

She made a great .effort to free herself from 
him, and regain her self-possession. 

“ Mr. Dynecourt, we have — that is, you — 
are mistaken.” 

“ Mistaken ! ” 

“That is, I mean you have taken things 
too seriously. I — I never intended,” and she 
stopped, seeing the agony of suspense he was 
.enduring. 

Still he clung to hope. 

“ Miss Verschoyle,” he said, in a penitent 
voice, “ I have been too sudden. I should 
have waited for you to speak. You think, 
perhaps, I make too little of your love ; have 
dared to call it mine too readily. Oh ! if so, 
forgive me. I will wait ; I will be silent ; I 
will not speak of it again until you bid me. 
No task you impose shall be too hard, if 
it is to win one word of hope from you. I 
was intoxicated with delight, and did not 
know what I said. Tell me you forgive me !” 
and he tried to take her hand again. 

“ I have nothing to forgive,” she said 
humbly : “ it is you who must forgive me ; 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Si 


but I — I never thought you — you were 
serious,” and she hid her face in her hands. 

In a moment he had taken them away by 
force, and exclaimed in a harsh voice, “ Look 
straight into my face. Now tell me, did you 
mean all the time to deceive me ? ” 

“ I — I never thought ” 

“ I do not ask what you thought ; but 
when you looked into my eyes with love, 
was it to cheat me? When you answered 
my half spoken words in your soft low voice, 
was it to mock me ? When you threw me 
this heather and bade me take hope, was it to 
deceive me ? ” 

“ It was,” she said, and her face blanched 
like his own. 

He flung her hands from him, and hiding 
his face, groaned aloud in his misery. The 
tears came slowly dropping from Audrey’s 
eyes, and she could not help laying her hand 
on his bowed head. 

“ Mr. Dynecourt, pray do not give ” 

He started up. “ Do not touch me ! ” he 
cried passionately. “ What ! you have tears 
too at your command? You can play at 
pitying your victim ? Oh, you are a cunning 
sorceress ! Are you satisfied with your power? 
Shall I delight your heart further by telling you 
how your charm has worked ? that before I 
knew you I was only sore at heart because I 
had lost the place where I and all my race 
were born ; saddened because strangers had 
a right to the house in which my mother 
died, and my father reared the only thing he 
had left to him. When I worked and toiled, 
hope was yet alive within me that some day 
I might have a loving woman to make me 
forget these trials. I met you. You know 
how you made me forget everything but your 
presence. I dreamt I had found the noblest, 
best, truest-hearted being ever permitted to 
bless earth with her presence. If you had 
not returned what you saw I was obliged to 
offer you, I should have gone from you 
humbly, knowing I was not worthy of you, and 
all my life you would have been my ideal of 
perfection. Now you have stranded hope ; 
it lies dead within me, and with it faith, 
and trust in womankind. Let your heart 
rejoice, for you have left me nothing to 
live for. Go on to bewitch and cozen other 
dupes. Oh, you must have a happy life !” 

Audrey’s spirit was roused. “ You have 
no right to speak to me as you have done,” 
she said ; “ if I have injured you, I am sorry; 
but how was I to know you were different 
from other men? I met men who played 
with me as you say I have played with 
you, and then laughed at the ignorant sim- 


plicity which made me suppose they meant 
anything serious^to a girl without a penny. 
In the world, poor people such as we are, 
cannot afford to love. We may play at love, 
but we must marry for money. I am of the 
world, brought up in its ways, versed in its 
deceits. How could I think you looked upon 
me as a fresh loving girl ? Every one in the 
house could have told you what brought me 
here.” 

“ They have told me that you intended to 
marry Mr. Ford, and I have laughed the idea 
to scorn.” 

“ You need not have done so ; it is quite 
true : and whenever he chooses to ask me, it 
is my intention to accept him.” 

“No! Audrey, not that; anything else. 
I could bear to see you happy, but not to 
degrade yourself.” 

“ Degrade myself, Mr. Dynecourt !” she 
said bitterly ; “ according to your showing, it 
is the man who marries me will bear the 
degradation. Mr. Ford has wealth ; that is 
all that such as I can possibly desire.” 

“ Then tell me one thing ; if we had met 
under other circumstances, and I had pos- 
sessed what former Dynecourts did, and had 
asked you to be mine, would you have said 
yes ? ” 

She hesitated a moment, and then fixing 
her eyes upon him, answered, “ With all my 
heart.” 

“ Then I thank God for having taken it 
from me. I rejoice that I am as a beggar in 
your sight. Had all England been mine, I 
should have pleaded my cause as humbly 
as I did to-day ; but n nv that I find your 
love is only a thing put up to the highest 
bidder, I am grateful to Fate for compelling 
me to stand aloof from such barter. The 
old lands of Dynecourt have indeed changed 
hands, when they are to be reigned over by 
such a mercantile mistress. Farewell, Miss 
Verschoyle ; your sex may thank you for 
having so effectually taught me their true 
value. I hope when you are the wife of 
Richard Ford, you will find happiness in the 
riches you so devoutly worship ; as for your 
husband that is to be, I am sorry lor him ; 
the good old man deserves a better fate.” 

He was gone, and Audrey stood motionless 
where he had left her ; the echo of his bitter 
parting still ringing in her ears, and falling 
like a dirge upon her heart. 

CHAPTER XVIII. — HARRY EGERTON’S ADVICE. 

John H anbury and Captain Verschoyle 
parted at the Shoreditch Station, the former 
going off to his business, the latter to Madame 


82 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Roget’s to inquire after the commissions 
from his mother. 

Not caring to be stuck down in the 
country with “a lot of stupid people,” as he 
called them, he had made up his mind to 
run down to Darington to see his old friend 
and godfather ; and as a preliminary to this 
he at once wrote, informing him of his being 
in Lon Ion. To Captain Verschoyle’s sur- 
prise, Mr. Egerton presented himself at his 
club the next afternoon. 

The satisfaction it gave the old gentleman 
to see his godson again safe and well, and 
the evident pleasure it was to the young man 


to meet him, prevented Mr. Egerton from 
giving way to his usual acerbity, beyond his 
saying in the gruff voice which made those 
who did not know him think him in a furious 
passion — * 

“ When the mountain wouldn’t come to 
Mahomet, Mahomet went to the mountain ; 
and I am fool enough to do the same.” 
Then, thinking this speech had rather be- 
trayed his genuinely warm feelings and real 
motive, he added, “ But don’t think you’ve 
brought me up. No, no ! I’ve come to 
give that vagabond shoemaker a little of my 
Queen’s English ; and, by the great Mogul’s 



imperial cat’s eyebrows, if he makes me 
another pair of his nigger-cut boots, with as 

much heel as toe, I’ll — I’ll ” and here he 

brought down his fist upon the table, making 
the very furniture rattle — “ kick the fellow 
round his own shop with ’em, sir ! ” Then 
he put his arm into Captain Verschoyle’s, 
saying, “ Come along with me to Conduit 
Street, and tell me what you’re up to for the 
next few days.” 

“ Why, when I have despatched that box 
and a letter to my mother, I am entirely at 
your service.” 

“ Humph ! then you’re precious hard-up 


for money or companions, 1 know. Well, 
stop and do your business, and I’ll go to 
Conduit Street by myself; and after that 
we’ll try and be jolly, though I don’t know 
what’s the way in these days, when everybody 
is hedged in on all sides, and you can’t drive 
a coach, and you mustn’t fight a duel. My 
stars ! what a set of Lady Fannys you men 
have been turned into !” 

Harry Egerton — as, in spite of his seventy 
years, all who knew him still called him* 
— was what people term a character. Those 
who met him for the first time always 
asked what made him so brusque and 



DOROTHY FOX. 


cynical. Why did he sneer at everything 
and everybody, and why had he never 
married? His oldest friend could not have 
given a satisfactory answer to one of these 
questions. In his day, he and Lascelles 
Verschoyle — Charles Verschoyle’s father — 
had been young sprigs of fashion, sworn 
friends, and constant companions. Then 
they parted for two years — saw nothing of 
each other ; and when they met again, Colonel 
Verschoyle had married, which altered him 
considerably to all but his old chum. Harry 
Egerton had perhaps met with a disappoint- 
ment. Certain it was that something had 
soured his tamper, altered his manner, and 
somehow changed his whole life. He never 
married, spoke in cutting terms of woman- 
kind in general, and year by year became 
more peculiar. Withal, however, he retained 
his old friends, and was looked up to by the 
younger men, who could generally bear testi- 
mony to the liberality of his heart and purse, 
notwithstanding the sharpness of his tongue 
and temper. 

Charles Verschoyle was his especial favou- 
rite, his godson, and his future heir ; not that 
the old man had much to leave beyond the 
inconvenient, old fashioned house, some few 
miles out of York, where he lived up to, and, 
as he said, beyond, his income ; and where 
he gave a hearty welcome to the men who 
chose to come and stay there without bother- 
ing him, or expecting more entertainment 
than a day’s shooting or hunting, and a plain 
bachelor-dinner when their sport was over. 

Many had tried to find out the secret 
which had seemed to influence his life ; but all 
had failed. If there was any story connected 
with it, he kept strict guard over it, until many 
believed that his eccentricity lay in his 
peculiar disposition, and his great love of 
ease and quiet. 

Ot course, he wanted to know all about 
Captain Verschoyle's personal experience 
of the war. Most of the afternoon was spent 
in answering questions and describing actions, 
until, when dinner was over, Mr. Egerton 
said — 

“Well, Charley, and what are you going 
to be after now?” 

“Why, my last idea was to get married, 
sir.” 

“ Married ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman, 
in a tone of the greatest contempt. “ What ! 
are you -tired of peace already?” 

“ Hardly that,” laughed Captain Vers 
choyle : “ but if a man intends to take a wife, 
it’s time he did so, at my age.” 

“Oh, certainly. Don’t you prove an ex- 


83 


ception to the rule that * there’s no fool like 
an old fool.’ ” 

“ Come, that’s not fair, and won’t do,” 
said Captain Verschoyle ; “ besides, an old 
fool wants somebody to take care of him ; 
and, remember, although ‘woman in our hours 
of ease,’ may be ‘ uncertain, coy, and hard to 
please — * — ’ ” 

“ According to your own account,- you 
haven’t found ’em so,” replied the old man. 
“And, as for the rest, it’s all bosh; for, if 
‘ pain and anguish wring the brow — ’ hang 
the women ! Get a bottle of soda-water and 
a wet ton el ; but what’s the good of me talk- 
ing ? Out with it ; you’ve found an angel, of 
course, and you’re in love. Ha, ha ! while 
the flame’s burning you don’t smell the brim- 
stone ; that comes after matrimony.” 

“ No, no, you’re wrong ; I am not one 
bit in love ; and the young lady is far better 
than an angel ; she is an heiress with^ 50,000 
of her own, besides expectations. My mother 
is most anxious for the match, thinking it 
the last chance I may get, and not a bad 
one either, for she is a pretty, lady-like girl ; 
young, and not bad-tempered.” 

“ Why don’t you have her then?” 

“ Because I can’t make up my mind that she 
and her money would make me happier than 
I am at present. I want your advice about it.” 

“ Oh ! you do ? very well then, I’ll give it. 
My opinion is, that any man who marries 
at all is a fool ; but a man who waits to get 
advice first is worse ; particularly when he 
spends his time in putting the woman on 
one side of the scale and her money on the 
other. Don’t do that, Charlie, my boy, or 
I’d rather see you married to a housemaid 
than to the richest heiress in England. If 
you must marry, marry a woman you love, 
and who loves you, or else keep single all 
the days of your life.” 

Captain Verschoyle took his companion’s 
hand, laughing heartily, as he shook it. 

“ There,” he said, “ I knew you’d tell me 
what to do. I have felt all this myself ; but 
you know how that cursed money tempts one. 
I won’t go to Dyne Court again. It’s rather 
a dull place ; and later on, if I wish it, I shall 
have lots of chances of meeting the young 
lady in London; then, if I get to like her 
better, all right, I’ll try my fate ; and if not, I 
— well, I shall have done better than if I 
were to go down now, when we would be 
constantly thrown together, and I might get 
philandering, and thinking I meant more 
than I really do.” 

“ Come to me at once, then,” said Mr. 
Egerton. “ I am going for my yearly visit to 


8 4 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Harrogate, with old Bob Constable ; and, 
after that, I shall be home.” 

“ Very well, I will. Stapleton and some 
fellows have asked me down for some shoot- 
ing, and when I have finished there I’ll come 
on to you.” 

So this was decided, and, a few days 
after, Captain Verschoyle went down to Har- 
rogate with Mr. Egerton, and remained until 
Sir Robert Constable arrived. He then took 
his departure, and came back to town, intend- 
ing to join Colonel Stapleton’s party as soon 
as he had made the necessary arrangements. 

chapter xix. — Dorothy’s blush. 

In the meantime Nathaniel Fox^had joined 
his wife at Fryston Grange. As he could 
only stay a few days, he had been making the 
most of his time ; and now that the visit 
was nearly over, he would hardly confess to 
himself how thoroughly he had enjoyed the 
change. 

“ I do wish you could stay longer, father,” 
said Grace. “There are so many things I 
should like you to see, which I know would in- 
terest you. Now, when will you come again?” 

“ I wish,” put in John Hanbury, “ that we 
could induce your father to move Londonward 
altogether.” 

Nathaniel shook his head as he said, half 
comically, “ I find that I have been wisely 
dealt with, in not having been set down to 
spend my life within reach of pleasures which 
are very engrossing. I begin to fear that in 
my nature lies a love of excitement, of which 
hitherto I have been ignorant.” 

John and Grace laughed at Nathaniel’s 
ideas of dissipation — which meant several 
meetings at Exeter Hall, and visits to the 
Crystal Palace. 

“ No, no, John,” he added, “ Patience and 
I will return home; and in spite of all we 
have seen, it will not be hard to renew our 
quiet life, will it, wife?” 

Patience smiled her reply. “ No ; and we 
shall have much to talk about,” she said. 

“ That is true,” said Nathaniel. “ Dear ! 
dear ! the world progresses with rapid strides. 
I feel more like a spectator, than one who is 
born to take a share in all this ;” adding, with 
much gravity, “ I fear I have perhaps been 
unduly severe towards those who are desirous 
to keep pace with the times. Remember, 
now, I do not excuse them, but I see more 
reason for it than I ever did beiore.” 

John was too sensible to be drawn into 
any discussion with the old gentleman, know- 
ing that once off on his hobby they might not 
part quite so amiably ; besides which, this 


lemark from Nathaniel was a wonderful con- 
cession, and, after making it, he relapsed into 
silence, fearing he had been carried away into 
saying rather too much. 

During that same morning, Grace and 
Patience had been left at home together, and 
the former took occasion to ask if Dorothy’s 
dress, while she stayed with them, might not 
be a little modified : “ I fear her present 
costume would rather attract attention ; and 
if you and father did not object to her having 
a simple white dress for evening wear, and a 
plain grey silk, with a straw bonnet, rather 
more fashionably made, for out-doors, I really 
think it would be better.” 

“ I was going to speak myself of this,” said 
Patience. “ I have already mentioned the 
subject to her father, and he has consented ; 
only she must not wear colours, Grace.” 

“ Certainly not. You may depend upon 
me, mother. After what father said last night 
about the confidence he reposed in John and 
me regarding Dorothy, we shall both be most 
particular that she goes nowhere, and sees no 
one but such as we feel you would efitirely 
approve of. There is one thing which I was 
going to ask you about this young Crewdson 
— is he an accepted lover of Dolly’s ? ” 

“ Oh, no !” returned Patience. “ Thy father 
and Stephen Crewdson always desired this 
union of the two families, but the fulfilment 
of the wish is left entirely to Josiah and 
Dorothy.” 

“He has been visiting you &tely, has he 
not ? How did you all like him ?” 

“ Very much indeed,” said Patience. “I 
think him an excellent young man. But 
Grace, dear, Dorothy will never care for him ; 
it is easy to see that. He has none ot those 
ways which win a girl’s heart.” 

“ I hope he is not like those dragonesses 
of sisters. I remember them ; they were the 
terror of my childhood ; and Aunt Caroline 
tells me they have stood still, and not altered 
in any way since.” 

“ Oh, no ! Poor Josiah is painfully bash- 
ful, and rather homely in manners and appear- 
ance. Thy father still holds to it, that Dorothy 
will learn to love him, but I am convinced she 
never will ; and this made me, as I told thee 
in my letter, particularly anxious that, be ore 
she would be called upon to decide, she should 
see a little of the world.” 

“ Of course,” replied Grace. “ Why, the 
poor child has never had an opportunity of 
seeing anybody at King’s-heart; and she is so 
pretty, mother, and sweet, that she might win 
any man’s love. I shall try and sound her 
as to how she feels disposed towards J osiah.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


85 


“ Do/’ said Patience. “ With thee she I 
may be more open.” 

So, a few days after Patience and Nathaniel 
had taken their departure, Grace approached 
the subject by saying — “ Oh, Dolly, how did 
you like Josiah Crewdson?” 

“ Very much. He was with us a week.” 

•‘Yes, so mother said. Is he good-looking?” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Dorothy, laughing at the 
idea, “not at all ! He is short and fat, and 
his cheeks are very red, and go out so.” And 
she puffed out her own, to give Grace some 
idea ofjosiah’s rotund countenance. “He 
made me laugh every time I saw him going up 
a hill —he used to puff and pant like an old 
man. But he is very good tempered, and he 
never minds what any one says.” 

“For ‘any one,’ read ‘I,’” said Grace, 
smiling. “ Perhaps he thinks all you say is 
perfect.” 

Dorothy laughed. 

“ He says he is very fond of me. His 
sisters are so cross to him, poor fellow — they 
never laugh or are cheerful — and his father 
wouM not allow him to speak, particularly at 
dinner ; and do all thou canst, nothing will 
make him say more than ‘ Yes ’ and ‘ No/ Of 
course he has finished long before anybody 
else, and then he is so uncomfortable at 
having nothing to do, that he eats twice as 
much as he wants.” 

“Not a very romantic, description of a 
lover, Dolly ; for I suppose I am to consider 
him in something of that light.” 

“ Oh, no, Grace ; at least, I have only 
promised father to try and like him ; and I 
told J osiah the same. But, for all that, I do 
not think of him as a lover — not that I know 
anything about lovers,” she said, her face 
getting suddenly very red. “ I often wonder, 
she went on with a sigh, “if anybody else 
would like me. I mean some one who — who 
was not like Josiah.” 

Grace laughed at the simplicity expressed 
in Dorothy’s words. “ Indeed, Dolly,” she 
replied, looking at the blush on the lovely 
face turned towards her, “ I think you may 
make your mind quite easy on that point. 
But by being not like Josiah, do you mean 
not a Friend ?” 

The colour which had died away from 
Dorothy’s cheeks now returned with double 
force as she replied very gravely, “Grace 
dear, I hope always to uphold our principles, 
and to marry out of our own society would 
not surely be consistent. John is a Friend.” 

“ True ; but had he bee^ of any other per- 
suasion, Dorothy, I should have married him. 
A higher law drew us together— a closer tie 


bound us — than the mere fact that we two 
had been brought up to call our religious 
opinions by one name. But while I am 
sermonising about him I am forgetting it is 
time to go and meet him ; so put on your 
bonnet quickly, dear. 1 daresay we shall find 
he has brought the things we ordered on 
Wednesday.” 

Mr. Hanbury had the boxes with him ; and 
as soon as they reached the Grange their con- 
tents were displayed, to Dorothy’s great de- 
light. 

“Oh, Grace!” she exclaimed, after they 
had undergone minute inspection, “ are they 
not pretty ? I hope I am not unduly set 
upon them.” 

“ My dear child,” answered Grace, “ don’t 
think of such things ; look upon the enjoy- 
ment of such trifles as small womanly plea- 
sures, allowable to beings \v ho can set their 
aims and affections on higher things.” 

Mr. Hanbury’s return put a stop to further 
conversation between the sisters, especially as 
. Grace wanted to hear the news of the day 
from her husband, who at length said, — 

“ By the way, I had a note from Captain 
Verschoyle, asking me to dine at his club 
with him on Friday. Shall I accept?” 

“ Oh, do,” answered Grace ; “ I should 
like you to go ; you took a fancy to him, 
did* you not ?” 

“ Yes ; and you liked him too ?” 

“ Very much : I do not know when I have 
met such a thoroughly agreeable gentleman.” 

And the next day, when she and Dorothy 
were sitting together, she again referred to 
the invitation, saying, “I am so glad John is 
going to dine with Captain Verschoyle ; I 
have told him to ask him down here again.” 

Though Dorothy only gave a grave little 
nod of assent, she was by no means indif- 
ferent ; her heart beat quicker, and she 
seemed to be suddenly filled with a joyousness 
that made all around her look bright and gay. 
“ I wish thou couldst see his sister, Grace,” 
she said, after a pause, “ she is so beautiful ; 
her name is Audrey — is it not pretty ?” 

“ Yes, it is an old-fashioned, quaint name. 
What an odd thing your meeting with them 
was, and then my mistake, and his coming 
here, — altogether a complete adventure. But 
how was it that you happened to be in the 
shop?” 

“ I was waiting for Judith and Dorothy 
began to give a minute description of the 
event. She had forgotten everything, so in- 
terested was she in the story, when the door 
was opened, and a servant announced “ Mr. 
Josiah Crewdson.” 


S6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


FJLtt T -VTT. 


CHAPTER XX — DOUBTFUI. PROGRESS. 

URPRISED 
at this unex- 
pected ar- 
rival, Doro- 
thy started 
up, but stood 
still ; while 
Grace ad- 
vanced to 
meet her 
visitor. All 
J o siah’s 
courage had 
forsaken 
him, and he 
was unable 
to utter a 
word. He 
stood at the 
drawing- 
room door 
apparently in great danger of blushing him- 
self into an apoplectic fit. He certainly did 
not present himself in a favourable aspect ; 
and Grace thought, “ The idea of any girl 
falling in love with him is preposterous ; we 
must put an end to this ; ” but nevertheless 
she held out her hand to him, saying — 

“ I am very glad to see you, Mr. Crewdson ; 
our families have been friends for so many 
years, that we cannot be strangers to each 
other.” 

By this time, Dorothy had recovered her- 
self, and expressed her great astonishment at 
seeing him. 

“ Did father know that thou wert coming ? ” 

“ No,” said Josiah ; “ I had some business 
— at least, it was not exactly business ; but I 
heard that thou wert here.” Then, seeing a 
smile on Grace’s face, he added in confusion, 
“ Not that I came up for that, thou knowest ; 
but 1 very often come to London — at least, 
not very often — but I have been once before.” 

Dorothy was vexed at his awkwardness, 
and wished that he had appeared to more 
advantage before her sister. Grace, however, 
did not seem to observe it ; but commenced 
to relate what the journey from Leeds to Lon- 
don used to be, and how well she remembered 
hearing Josiah’s father speak ofbeing attacked 
by highwaymen on the road. By the time 
she had finished, Josiah felt somewhat more 
at his ease, although he still sat in a most 
uncomfortable position on a chair just inside 


| the door, under which he had deposiied his 
hat. 

“ I hope you will have luncheon with us,” 
said Grace. Josiah looked at Dorothy, and 
Grace added, “ Dorothy will show you the 
garden and the forest, which are very pretty.” 

“ Thank thee ; I should like to stay very 
much, if I am not putting anybody to in- 
convenience.” 

“ Not in the least. I am sure I can answer 
for Dorothy,” and Grace gave her a significant 
look to say something, for, as she said after- 
wards, she pitied the poor young man. 

“ Oh, I shall be very glad !” said Dorothy. 
“ Do stay, Josiah.” 

Josiah’s face beamed with satisfaction, 
and he gave a little sigh of relief. 

“And come nearer the fire,” Grace con- 
tinued ; “ it is rather chilly to-day. Take 
my place, for I must speak to nurse before 
she goes out.” 

So she went off and left them together. 

Dorothy did not speak for a little; then 
she looked up and saw that Josiah’s eyes 
were fixed upon her. 

“ Why dost thou stare at me ?” she asked, 
looking straight at him with a half-saucy 
expression. 

“ Because I cannot help it. Oh, Dorothy, 
thou must not be vexed with me ; but I 
cannot help thinking of thee all the day long. 
I try to forget thee, but it’s of no use.” 

Dorothy Fox had naturally a great deal of 
the coquette in her ; and though she could 
not return Josiah’s affection, it was not un- 
pleasant to her. She had been taught to set 
no value on personal appearance, and to dis- 
regard every attention to dress which was 
not necessary to neatness and order. She 
had been taught to look upon fashion as 
the worldly name of an engrossing sin in- 
vented by the devil “ to lead captive the 
fancy of silly men and women ; ” and as for 
gay colours, they were the badges of slavery 
to this tyrant, who drew his victims step by 
step into a vortex of frivolous gaiety, in which 
they spent their youth in folly and their old 
age in regret. > 

Notwithstanding this teaching, Dorothy 
was truer to her nature than to her educa- 
tion ; and the girl looked on her lair face 
and rejoiced, and could not check the desire 
. to wear the pretty colours which the flowers, 

! the sea, and the sky suggested to her. 

Josiah Crewdson, assuredly, was not her 



DOROTHY FOX. 


S7 


ideal of a lover, still it was very pleasant to 
hear him say that he could not help thinking 
of her ; to know, as she did, that he loved 
her, and that this love had brought him from 
Leeds to see her. These reflections caused 
her to look down for a moment, and then 
to answer demurely : — 

“ I arn sorry that I should engross so much 
of thy thoughts, Josiah; and I am puzzled 
to understand the reason. What makes thee 
think of meV ’ and she gravely regarded 
Josiah, whose whole energies seemed bent 
upon endeavouring to pull off separately the 
fingers of his black-and-white silk gloves, 
which he had previously held so tightly in 
his hands. 

“ Because I love thee so much, and I want 
thee to love me, Dorothy ! Thou wilt try ? 
If only a little, I shall be so happy. I 
don’t know what I am about now ; I keep on 
doing all sorts of foolish things. I forget to 
send letters, and I add up figures wrong, and 
I don’t order the things sisters ask me to 
bring with me from town.” 

“ Oh, Josiah ! how wrong ! Thy sisters 
have a right, then, to be displeased with thee, 
and there is some excuse for them when they 
are cross.” 

“ I don’t care whether they are cross or 
pleased,” exclaimed Josiah, throwing down 
his gloves, and coming nearer to Dorothy. 
“ If thou wilt only say, some day thou wilt 
marry me, Dorothy, I will do everything that 
thou wishest, and never forget a single thing 
thou tellest me. But, when I think what an 
ugly, stupid fellow I am, and thou so clever 
and so beautiful, oh ! I could do anything 
then ! Why, I went into the Cloth Hall 
with my umbrella up the other day. Don’t 
laugh at me, Dorothy ; it was because I was 
thinking of thee, and how I should manage 
to see thee before the time thy father named.” 

Dorothy gave full vent to her merriment, 
and whenever Josiah attempted to renew his 
protestations, he was interrupted by a fresh 
burst of laughter. 

“ How fortunate it is that thy business has 
obliged thee to come to L<?ndon ! ” she said 
at length. 

“ Ah ! thou knowest thou wert my business. 
Kezia and Jemima did all they could to find 
out why I was coming; but I wouldn’t tell 
them ; I said that I had. to settle some money 
matters.” 

“Josiah, I fear thou hast not been truth- 
ful ; deceiving thy sisters is not acting up 
to our principles.” 

“ Well, but I ccui settle some money busi- 
ness,” replied Josiah, ruefully. “ And if thou i 


wilt only say that thou art trying to care for 
me, I will tell them that I saw thee, or any- 
thing that thou thinkest is proper.” 

Dorothy looked down hesitatingly, and 
pinched up the frill of her white muslin 
apron ; while Josiah kept his eyes fixed upon 
her with eager anxiety. 

“I told thee I liked thee, Josiah,” said 
Dorothy at length; “but, of course, that is 
not saying I could marry thee.” 

“ But,” gasped Josiah, “ thou dost not say 
thou won’t, Dorothy ? — Do say that per- 
haps one day thou mayest. I have never 
had anybody to love me, and I do love thee 
so much. I didn’t know what love was ; but, 
since I was at King’s-heart, I have been so 
miserable.” 

“ Then, I am sure thou must be very sorry . 
thou wert there.” 

“No, I am not. I should not be sorry 
even if thou couldst never care a bit for me ; 
because, somehow, I am different. When I 
am by myself, I am not dull and stupid, such 
as I was before I knew thee. I can think 
about thee, and what I would do for thee, 
and how I would love thee ; and, instead of 
being wearied, I am quite happy, and glad 
when nobody is near to distract my thoughts. 
Dorothy, only say thou wilt try !” 

“ Yes ; I will try. I told father I would* 
try. But thou must not take that as an 
assurance that I mean to marry thee, Josiah, 
because I don’t feel at all like that. In- 
deed,” she added, with a little air of de- 
spondency, “ I am not certain that I shall 
marry at all. Sometimes I think I shall be 
an old maid, like Dorcas Horsenail.” 

Josiah shook his head, — “ Thou wilt never 
be like her,” he said. 

“Why not?” 

“Because,” answered Josiah, simply, “those 
good women have not got faces and ways like 
thine.” 

At this moment, Grace tapped at the win- 
dow, saying, “ Dolly, the children want you 
to have a romp with them in the garden, 
and perhaps Mr. Crewdson will come out 
with you. We shall have luncheon soon, 
and after that, we will go for a drive.” 

So, until luncheon was announced, Grace 
took possession of Josiah, walking round the 
garden with him, and asking him about her 
old friends, and his relations, and making 
him forget for the time his awkwardness and 
bashfulness, She perceived the truth of her 
mother’s remarks about Josiah. He was 
very amiable, but quite unable to inspire love 
in such a girl as Dorothy. 

The drive went off so successfully that 


ss 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Josiah was too happy even to think about 
those personal deficiencies which generally 
fonned a barrier to his peace of mind when 
in company. The children were friends with 
him at once, and Dorothy laughed, and talked 
to him without reserve, and to his great de- 
light said she would like to visit his sisters. 
So in another month there was every prospect 
that he would meet her again. 

Mrs. Hanbury watched them until she had 
grave doubts whether, after all, Dorothy would 
not become Mrs. Josiah Crewdson. She 
certainly gives him encouragement, thought 
she ; and the poor fellow has evidently lost 
his heart to her. 

During the drive home Dorothy laughed, 
and teased Josiah until Grace thought that 
she had a very decided regard for him. She 
was still engrossed with such thoughts when 
the carriage drove up to the door, where, 
instead of the servant, stood Captain Vers- 
choyle. 

Had Dorothy known that she was going to 
see Captain Verschoyle she could not have 
desired to look better. The fresh air and her 
cheerfulness had heightened her colour, and 
made her eyes brighter even than usual. 
Captain Verschoyle thought he had never 
seen any one so lovely ; and, though he ad- 
dressed his first greetings to Mrs. Hanbury, he 
could hardly divert his attention for a moment 
from Dorothy. While Josiah was standing 
waiting until Dorothy should give some sign 
that she required his assistance, Captain 
Verschoyle walked round to the other side 
of the carriage, and, quite ignoring him, took 
her hands, and, though it was not necessary, 
almost luted her out, and accompanied her 
to the drawing-room. 

For some time, the conversation was en- 
tirely about Captain Verschoyle, and how he 
had been spending his time since they last 
saw him at Fryston. Grace begged him to 
stay to dinner, but he said he had an engage- 
ment. “ You will have a cup of tea with us 
then ?” she said ; and perceiving that Josiah 
had been overlooked, she asked him to ring 
the bell ; saying to Captain Verschoyle, “ Our 
lriend Mr. Crewdson is obliged to return by 
the six train, so I can drive you both to the 
station, when I go for John.” 

Captain Verschoyle bowed to Josiah, who, 
to Dorothy’s vexation, took no notice of him. 
Very soon tea was brought in, and then poor 
Josiah, whose star had been gradually waning, 
ever since this dazzling sun had made his 
appearance, was suddenly extinguished. Cap- 
tain Verschoyle walked about, attending 
and talking to the ladies, and finally took 


his cup of tea, and drank it standing, as 
Dorothy thought, in the most graceful man- 
ner, while Josiah, made doubly awkward 
with a cup of tea and no table, and a 
piece of bread and butter without a plate, 
sat silently eating and drinking, — his coloured 
silk handkerchief spread over his knees. 

Captain Verschoyle, after the momentary 
glance he gave Josiah when introduced, took 
no further notice of him. But, to Dorothy’s 
imagination, he was looking at, and remarking 
upon every small peculiarity which her un- 
fortunate lover possessed ; and she felt so 
vexed and annoyed with Josiah, that she 
longed to say something cross to him. But 
no opportunity occurred ; for except when he 
was particularly addressed, Josiah was dumb; 
and besides, Captain Verschoyle was con- 
stantly including her in the conversation, and 
thus attracting her attention to himself. At 
length, the subject of art being introduced, he 
asked Mrs. Hanbury if she had seen some 
celebrated paintings at Spencer House ? — and 
finding that she had not, he said,. “ Would 
you like to see them ? I know I can get ad- 
mission, and I should so like to show them 
to you and Miss Fox. Will you come on 
Saturday? Mr. Hanbury is to dine with me 
to-morrow, and then we can arrange it.” 

Grace said she would be delighted, and 
Dorothy looked so radiant, that Captain 
Verschoyle ielt inclined to offer to take 
them to every gallery in London. He turned 
to Grace, saying rueiully, “ Is it not too bad ? 
here I am in London, wanting to see all the 
sights, and nobody will accompany me. Have 
you been everywhere, Miss Fox?” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Grace. “ We have 
been nowhere yet, but John has promised to 
take us. I want Dolly to see all she can 
while she is with us.” 

“ Then, Miss Fox, will you have pity on 
me, and get Mrs. Hanbury to include me in 
some of her excursions ?” 

“Yes,” said Dorothy, looking at him 
shyly ; “ but thou hadst better ask Grace 
herself.” 

“ Oh ! I shall be very happy,” laughed 
Grace ; “ but I fear our pleasures will be 
rather tame to Captain Verschoyle.” 

“Nothing of the kind, Mrs. Hanbury; I 
really mean what I say. I w r ant to see some 
of the London sights, and I cannot go alone. 
You forget how long I have been away from 
England.” 

| Josiah here took out his watch, giving 
Grate an opportunity of speaking to him. 

• “ What is the time ?” 

“ A quarter-past five.” 































^ f 




















• 

+ 




























, 



































































































• A 

























v 

















» 



DOROTHY FOX. 


9 1 


“ Too soon to be thinking of going. The 
train does not start until five minutes after 
six.” 

“ I was just about to propose, if you are 
not too tired, that you and Miss Fox would 
honour us by walking to the station, and 
vour carriage could follow and bring you 
hack,” said Captain Verschoyle. 

“ Oh ! that would be much nicer,” ex- 
claimed Dorothy. “ Wilt thou do it, Grace ?” 

“ I am afraid I can’t, as I am a little tired ; 
but you might go, dear. I would be at the 
station before the train leaves.” 

While Dorothy went off to get ready, 
Captain Verschoyle continued talking to 
Grace ; and Josiah dolefully thought that 
now he should have no opportunity of saying 
another word to Dorothy. Perhaps at the 
station she might say something to him ; but 
on the way this man, towards whom Josiah 
had taken a great dislike, would doubtless 
monopolize her. Then he could not stay 
beyond the sixth day. He had not courage 
enough to come again the next day, so he 
should not see her. How provoking that 
this person should have come ! But she had 
been kinder to him, and had promised to 
visit them. Still his heart had lost its light- 
ness ; she seemed more beautiful than ever, 
and he more stupid, by comparison with this 
stranger. 

Grace was not in the room when Dorothy 
returned. Josiah arose, took his hat from 
under his chair, and stood waiting to accom- 
pany them. But Captain Verschoyle, who 
had decided against a third person accom- 
panying them in their walk, turned to him as 
they were following Dorothy, and said — 

“ Of course you will wait and take care of 
Mrs. Hanbury ; ” and so Josiah was left alone 
in the drawing-room, where Grace found him, 
and to his astonishment said, “ I am so sorry 
you thought it necessary to wait for me, you 
should have gone with Dorothy; I drive 
down alone almost every day.!’ 

When they all met at the station Josiah 
found no opportunity to say more than 
“ Farewell.” Grace gave him a general invi- 
tation to come and see them whenever he 
came to town. Captain Verschoyle stood 
talking until the train was just starting ; then 
he said, turning to Josiah, “ Do you smoke? 
No ? Then, good-bye !” and got into another 
carriage, and the long-looked-for meeting was 
over. 

When Mr. Hanbury returned from busi- 
ness the visitors were mentioned, and also 
the invitation given by Captain Verschbyie. 

“ Hast thou accepted, Grace ? ” he asked. 


“ Conditionally, dear — that thou hadst no 
engagement.” 

“No, if Dolly and thou would like to go, 
I shall be at your service.” 

“ Then we will decide upon going,” said 
Grace. 

“ Oh ! I am so glad,” exclaimed Dorothy. 
“ Is it not fortunate, Grace, that I have my 
new dress and bonnet ? ” 

“ Oh ! woman, woman !” laughed John 
Hanbury. “ What matters it whether thou art 
a strict Friend, a Parisian belle, or an Indian 
squaw ? — nature has implanted in thee a love 
of adornment and dress, which no sect can 
overcome, and no training extinguish.” 

CHAPTER XXI. ART AND NATURE. 

“ Well, Audrey, you may be a very enter- 
taining companion to some people, but cer- 
tainly you never give your mother any oppor- 
tunity of judging of your talents. I thought 
I would just see how long you would remain 
silent, and it is twenty minutes since you last 
spoke. Perhaps had I not said anything 
it would have been twenty minutes more 
before you would have uttered a word.” 

“I beg your pardon, mamma; I was 
thinking.” 

“Thinking, indeed !” echoed Lady Laura. 
“ I wish you would think a little of me ; but 
I am the last person my children ever con- 
sider. I have ruined my health, and toiled 
and slaved all my life, and my devotion is 
rewarded with contempt and ingratitude. I 
know I cannot stand it mhch longer ; and it 
is very hard to bear;” and here Lady Laura 
applied her handkerchief to her eyes in a 
manner that threatened a scene. 

“ Mamma, you have no ri&ht to say such 
things of us. I am sure I always try to do 
what pleases you.” 

“ Indeed ! do you ? and I suppose I shall 
hear next that your cruel heartless brother 
does the same.” 

“Well, Charley would be very sorry to 
vex you ; but if he knew he couldn’t like 
Miss Bingham ” 

“Now, Audrey, if you are bent upon irri- 
tating me, I desire that you will leave the 
room ; my nerves can’t stand it. Like Miss 
Bingham, indeed ! I should like to know 
how long you have taken to consider matri- 
mony in this new light ? Charles knew that 
I used every effort to introduce him to a nice- 
looking girl with ,£50,000 of her own, besides 
expectations. She immediately fell in love 
with him, received his very pointed attentions 
most graciously, and then, when everything 
was going on smoothly, suddenly he takes 


9 2 


DOROTHY FOX. 


some ridiculous idea into his head that he is 
afraid he cannot love her, and he must go 
away to prove his passion. Well, all the time 
he is absent, I entirely sacrifice myself to his 
interests, never leaving her ; and let me tell 
you it's not so very agreeable to be tied down 
to a namby-pamby girl from morning till 
night : no one but a mother would do it.” 

“ But, mamma, you forget you wanted 
Charley to take this same girl for life.” 

“ I want no argument, Audrey ; and it is 
only your perverse temper that makes you 
defend him. You know perfectly well what 
I mean. The idea of a man in his position 
throwing away such a chance ; and really 
thirty-two is rather late to begin to have 
these romantic feelings. I’ll never believe 
that his want of love is his only reason — 
the idea is too ridiculous. No, I am certain 
that he has some horrid entanglement, or 
infatuation, which will burst upon us sud- 
denly. I am quite prepared for anything ; 
perhaps it’s a housemaid or a cook.” 

“ Oh ! mamma, don’t be so absurd.” 

“ I don’t see that it’s at all absurd, Audrey. 
After the pointed manner in which he made 
every one believe he was going to marry 
Miss Bingham, I feel ashamed to meet the 
people.” 

“You need not, I am sure. I never saw 
any of this pointed attention you speak of ; 
he was polite to her, but not more so than I 
have seen him to dozens of girls.” 

“ Then all I can say is, you have gone 
about with your eyes shut. If people had 
been so blind as you, how was it that Mr. 
Dynecourt, who was dying to get her, should 
go off the very day he heard Charles was 
coming back ? ” 

“ Do you think that was the reason of Mr. 
Dynecourt’s Reaving ?” 

“ I don’t need to think about it; it was quite 
apparent to every one. Mr. Ford, in his good- 
natured way, asked young Dynecourt here to 
meet Miss Bingham. No doubt, when Charles 
went away, he thought everything was in his 
own hands, but he had sense enough to know 
that he had no chance when your brother 
returned, and so gave it up. I never saw 
any one behave more absurdly, for, of course, 
by going away so suddenly he made every 
one aware of his design. 

“As Charles does not intend to possess 
himself of this coveted treasure, it is a pity 
that Mr. Dynecourt should also be disap- 
pointed,” said Audrey in a scornful voice. 
“Would it not be only fair to send him a 
recall ?” % 

“ It is quite immaterial to me whether he re- 


turns or not. I said to Mr. Ford that I feared 
his young friend was a little disappointed, and 
he asked me if I had any reason for'supposing 
so. He evidently did not wish it to be men- 
tioned, as he pretended to be amazed at me 
for thinking that Mr. Dynecourt admired Miss 
Bingham.” 

“ Who then did Mr. Ford think he ad- 
mired?” asked Audrey quickly. 

“ I couldn’t make out,” returned Lady 
Laura. “ By the way, I think it is time you 
settled matters there.” 

“ So do I,” returned her daughter. 

“ Then why don’t you do so ? Surely 
the matter lies with yourself, and I shall be 
very glad to have it decided, for this disap- 
pointment about Charles has quite upset me. 
I feel nervous about everything.” * 

“ Yes, it would be very hard upon you if 
my scheme turned out to be a failure. But 
there is no fear of that, mamma; I cannot 
afford to let likes and dislikes interfere with 
my settlement in life, can I ?” 

“Nobody with proper sense ever would 
allow such feelings to overrule their judg- 
ment. I am not afraid of you there, my 
love; but T think it is time to have the offer 
made formally, for, with that exception, I 
look upon it as settled. I do not see how he 
could draw back now if he wished, and I am 
sure that that is not likely.” 

“ I wonder if he will ever repent of mar- 
rying me, mamma?” 

“ Well,” returned her ladyship, with a 
shrug of her shoulders, “once married it does 
not matter; but if he does he will be very 
ungrateful, I think. I do not know where he 
could have done so well. We have unex- 
ceptionable connections, and every opportu- 
nity of being*' in the best set, and you are 
very handsome, and wonderfully fascinating 
when you please, although you have not 
looked at all well this last week.” 

“ Have I not ? — but what does it mat- 
ter ? When I am Mrs. Ford I shall even be 
able to indulge in looking plain.” 

“ That’s quite a mistake*? replied Lady 
Laura. “ There is no reason why you should 
not have as many admirers then as now.” 

“ Wouldn’t that be rather a dangerous 
luxury, which even money had better forego ?” 

“ Of course you know, Audrey, no one can 
be stricter than I am ; I make a point of 
never forgetting a slur on any one’s reputa- 
tion. But when an old man marries an 
elegant woman young enough to be his 
daughter, he cannot suppose she is going to 
shut herself up with him, and never speak to 
any other.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


93 


Audrey sat silently looking out of the win- 
dow for some minutes, then she suddenly 
exclaimed, “ Oh, money, money, what a curse 
it is ! I wish with all my heart I was that 
farm-girl outside !” 

“Gracious me! what for?” asked Lady 
Laura, surprised at this sudden outburst. 

“ Because, perhaps, I should win the affec- 
tion of some country bumpkin, and we should 
love each other with all our vulgar hearts, 
and, knowing no more refined motive, marry 
and be happy.” 

“ Happy ! with a dozen children in a hovel, 
eating fat bacon, and at last dying in the 
workhouse ! Really, for a girl brought up as 
you have been, that is an odd notion of hap- 
piness. My dear, these speeches are very 
telling, when well said in private theatricals ; 
but in real life they are too weak and absurd.” 

“ So they are, but so am I, just now.” 

“ Then have a little wine, or sal-volatile ; 
but priy don’t lead people to suppose that 
you are mad.” 

Audrey started up, and said •abruptly, “ I 
think I shall take a walk in the grounds for 
an hour ; and by that time Mr. Ford will have 
returned, and I shall be better able to make 
myself agreeable to him.” 

“ Do so,” answered Lady Laura, with a 
relieved look. “ Will you take Marshall 
with you ?” 

“No, I shall go alone.” 

“Take care to be back in time for Mr. 
Ford, or I shall have to go to him ; and I 
want to write another letter to Charles : he 
said he should leave Harrogate to day, but 
that was only to prevent me writing. I shall 
direct my letter to him as usual, and show 
him that I see through his pretext.” 

Audrey was soon dressed,' and walking 
rapidly along the paths, which, all new to 
her as they were a week before, were now 
quite familiar. She bent her steps to the 
“ Saint’s Well,” sat down on the wooden seat, 
and gave a great sigh of relief. “ Now,” she 
said to herself, “ I can dismiss my smiles, 
and be as miserable as l please.” 

“Gone!” in that word lay her grief^ 
Gone ! — in anger, in sorrow, in contempt of 
her, in hatred by this time, thinking with 
loathing of her $ and she, — alas, poor Au- 
drey ! what storms and tempests of love had 
swept over her ! She had tried 1 to reason 
with herself, to ask why she loved him? 
What demon had *cursed her with this sud- 
den passion ? All to no purpose : she had 
no answer to give. She had seen tor some 
time her danger ; but being convinced that 
she stood upon a rock, she had braved 


it, even courted it, until at her last meet- 
ing with Geoffrey Dynecourt, his great love, 
his withering scorn, his passionate farewell 
had undone her. Instead of a rock, she saw 
too late that she had been standing upon sand, 
which the tide of love had suddenly swept 
away. How she revolted from marrying Mr. 
Ford now ! Still, she battled with herself ; and 
after indulging in some wild delicious dream, 
in which she and Geoffrey Dynecourt lived 
only for one another, she would start up and 
declare it could not be, she must be mad. 
Did she not know, had she not said all her 
life, that when she married it should be for 
money? Nothing else could give her happi- 
ness. Was not this the temptation of some 
fiend ? Would she not awaken from the spell, 
to find she had thrown away all real plea- 
sure and secured nothing in its stead. She 
must overcome it ; but could she only have 
seen him again, talked to him calmlf, told 
him of her feelings, it would not be so hard, 
so bitter. She was resolved she would put 
retreat out of her power; she would meet Mr. 
Ford, and settle her fate that very afternoon, 
no matter how she suffered afterwards. Was 
it not enough to know that marriage with 
Geoffrey Dynecourt was impossible? They 
would both be wretched. And so she half 
started up, and then sank back again, and sat 
with' closed eyes and softening mouth, until 
a blush suffused her face, which she hid in 
her hands, while her lips pressed hard against 
them, as she rose quickly, saying, “ Oh ! why 
is love so cruel, and hard, and bitter ?” 

She then hurried on until she came to a 
part of the grounds which commanded the 
road, and along which Mr. Ford would return. 

She had not waited many minutes before 
the sound of wheels told her he was near ; 
so she walked down to the gate, and stood 
leaning on it. Mr. Ford was delighted to 
see her, and proposed that they should go 
back through the fields. 

“Just like your thoughtfulness, my dear 
Miss Verschoyle, to come and meet me. 
When one has been worried, and busy all 
day, it is very refreshing to find one ex- 
pecting you, and waiting to welcome you.” 

Audrey smiled, and asked if he were tired. 

“ No, not tired, only glad to get back. 
This country life unfits one tor a day’s busi- 
ness, and I begin to think it quite a journey 
to London now; there was a time when 
seventy or eighty miles was a mere nothing 
to me.” 

“ We will walk slowly,” she said, “and the 
air will soon revive you.” 

“ My dear, the sight 01 you has revived 


94 


DOROTHY FOX. 


me more than anything else could. You 
must not think I am past being delighted 
and proud to see a beautiful young lady 
taking the trouble to come and meet me. I 
know of no young fellow who wouldn’t envy 
me.” 

“ Oh ! you are wrong there. The young 
men are not very gallant in our day.” 

“ Now, I am sure you have no reason to 
complain of them, whatever their general 
conduct may be.” 

“ No, they behave very well to me,” said 
Audrey, “ and give me quite as much atten- 
tion as I wish.” 

“ Ah ! I wish I were only one of them.” 

“ Why ?” she said, looking at him smilingly. 

“ Because I would soon enter the lists ds 
one of your admirers ; and, if devotion and 
attention could win your favour, I would cer- 
tainly carry off the prize.” 

“ I tear,” she answered gravely, “ the prize 
would hardly be worth having.” 

“ I cannot permit you to say that, though, 
perhaps, you scarcely know the value it pos- 
sesses in my eyes. Take my arm, my dear 
Miss Verschoyle, and oblige me by listening 
to something I have for some time desired 
to say to you.” 

Oh ! it was coming at last — she would 
have to say “Yes,” and her fate would be 
decided for ever. A sharp pain seemed to 
stab her, and she caught her breath almost in 
a sob. 

Mr. Ford stopped ; then, seeing how pale 
she looked, he became alarmed. 

“ My dear, what is the matter ? — are you 
ill ? — do you feel faint ? Lean on me — rest 
a moment.” 

“ It is nothing,” she answered. “ Such a 
sudden pain seized my side ; I am better now.” 

“ Yes ; but I see you are suffering still,” 
said the old gentleman anxiously. “ You 
have been doing too much.” 

“ 1 ndeed, I have been very quiet all day, 
but I have not been well for the last week.” 

“ I noticed you were looking pale. We 
must have Dr. Morcombe to see you : he will 
soon put you right. It would never do to 
allow the flower of our party to droop. I 
daresay it is the weather,” continued the old 
man ; while Audrey strove with her re- 
bellious heart, and tried to bring it to obe- 
dience. “ These changes at the end of 
autumn are very trying, and the past week 
has been as hot as July. You may be sure it 
has affected many people. Why, only to-day 
I saw our friend Mr. Dynecourt ; and really 
he was so altered, I scarcely knew him to 
be the same man who left us only a week 


ago — his face was thin and haggard, and he 
looked wretched, just as if he had had no 
sleep for a month. I was quite concerned, 
and begged him to see a doctor. Still he 
declared there was nothing wrong with him ; 
but that is nonsense. Why should he sud- 
denly break down in this way ? Besides, he 
was evidently depressed ; said there was no 
chance of his dying just yet ; that he wished 
he could go to sleep for a year ; and things of 
that sort. Whenever I hear that from a 
young person, I know there is something 
wrong with the mind, or the body.” 

It was of no use, Audrey’s will was strong, 
but this new feeling was stronger; and, in 
spite of all her efforts, forced the hot tears 
from her eyes. 

“ My poor child,” said Mr. Ford, moved 
to pity by the look of suppressed agony in 
the white face before him. 

His sympathy broke down the last frail 
barrier, and Audrey burst into a passion of 
tears. 

Mr. Ford tfied to console her by saying, 
“ Now, never mind, my dear, this will relieve 
you ; you are a little hysterical.” 

After a time she recovered sufficiently 
to apologize, saying, “ I am really quite 
ashamed of myself. I do not know what can 
be the matter with me. I felt very well when 
I came out. Oh ! I am much better. 1 can 
walk back now, and perhaps if I lie down 
quietly, I shall be all right again.” 

“ I hope so. I am very glad I was with 
you ; this might have seized you when alone.” 

“ I don’t wish to alarm mamma, she is 
so very nervous,” said Audrey ; “'so I think 
we will go in by the turret door, and then I 
can reach my own room without being seen. 
Marshall will look after me.” 

“Very well, my dear. Now do try and 
get a little sleep, and then after dinner you 
may be quite well; and if not, you must 
let Dr. Morcombe visit you. Dear me ! 
this is a sad ending to our pleasant little con- 
versation, but it is only deferred. All in 
good time, I hope.” 

» She endeavoured to say something polite in 
reply, but what it was she could not tell. 
She pnly longed to be alone, to wrestle with 
despair, to cry out in her agony, to cherish 
in her heart the hope that he who had 
conquered her had not conquered himself, 
that he loved her still ar^l could not forget 
her. And then she rained bitter tears over 
his grief, his pain, his disappointed hopes. 
“ Oh ! my love, my love ! ” she sobbed. 
“ What can I do ? I cannot go to you. I 
cannot tell you to come to me. I am power- 


DOROTHY FOX. 


95 


less.” After, a time she became calm, and 
thought, “One thing is certain ; we must leave 
this place. If I stay here I shall refuse that 
man ; it was all I could do to-day to restrain 
myself from telling him that I could never care 
for him. Perhaps when I go back to the old 
dingy house and shifting ways this madness 
will leave me. What will mamma say ? What- 
ever she says, I must tell her — beg her to 
save me from myself. She will think I have J 
gone mad ; sometimes I think so too. It is 1 
so unaccountable — so sudden. Will it die 
out in like manner ? Oh ! I wish it would 


— but no, I cannot say that, for at the 
bottom of my cup of misery and bitterness 
lies a drop so sweet that it is life to taste it, 
and death to destroy it.” 

Then, hearing some one enter the room, 
she said, “ Marshall, is that you?” 

“ Yes, miss. Are you unwell?” 

“ Yes. I shall not go down to dinner. 
You can bring me some tea, and tell 
mamma not to come up, as I have a bad 
headache, and wish to rest. Say I have 
seen Mr. Ford, and he knows that I do not 
feel well. They are not to send for Dr. Mor- 



Page 86. 


combe, as I am sure to be better in the 
morning.” 

/“ Very well, miss.” 

Marshall brought up the tea, gave it to 
her mistress, undid her hair, and put on her 
dressing-gown. 

“ Now you will feel more comfortable,” 
she said. “ I daresay it’s the hot weather. 

I heard Mr. Ford telling Mrs. Winterton how 
ill Mr. Dynecourt was looking.” And here 
she gave a sharp look of inquiry. “ I was ! 
so sorry when he left^” she continued, brush- j 
ing softly Audrey’s beautiful dark hair ; “ he j 
is such a nice gentleman. Sometimes I used [ 


to think he was, as you said, quite handsome. 
It’s a thousand pities he had to give up this 
place. Do you know, miss, I believe, if he’d 
been master of it still, you would have been 
asked to be mistress, quite as much as you 
will be now.” 

“ What makes you say so?” 

“ Because, the morning he went away, 
Jane — that’s the upper housemaid, she’s a 
very superior young woman — saw him come 
into the breakfast room, take the photograph 
book, and look at your likeness for a long 
time ; then he tore it out with such force 
that it split the paper : and when he turned 


9 6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


and saw her, he gave her a half-sovereign, 
and shut the book, put it in the ‘whatnot’ 
drawer, and went out without saying a word.” 

“ She had no right to speak of it,” said 
Audrey, huskily. 

“ I am quite sure that she has never 
breathed a word to any one but me ; and of 
course she didn’t suppose I was going to tell 
you, Miss Audrey. But, as I generally do 
tell you all that happens, I told you this.” 

Her mistress was silent for a minute or 
two, then she said : “ The woman did not 
touch the book, you say?” 

“No; and she has never touched it since.” 

“ Then go down, and, while they are at 
dinner, see if you can find it, and bring it up 
to me. Don’t open it, Marshall.” 

When Marshall returned with the book, 
Audrey took it from her saying, “ I shall not 
want you again to-night, I think. Tell mamma, 
before she goes to bed, to come to me, I 
have something to say to her.” 

CHAPTER XXII. A RETREAT. 

Lady Laura was in excellent spirits when 
she entered her daughter’s room. She had 
for the time forgot all her troubles and 
vexation. 

It was late ; for Mr. Ford had detained 
her by entering confidentially into his plans for 
the next year. She could not quite make out 
whether he had proposed to Audrey or not; but 
in any case it was now a settled thing, “and 
my only wonder is that we’ve secured him,” 
thought she, “ for his fortune must be colossal. 
I am very glad now that Audrey did not have 
that stupid, heavy young Granton. I never 
really cared for him, though he was thought 
such a catch. This man could buy and sell 
him twice over. Dear Audrey, I am sure now 
she will be happy. I must tell her what he 
said about the diamonds, and a town-house. 
I can see we shall be allowed to manage 
matters just as we please, and that he is a 
very sensible person, and contented to take 
his proper place. I shall ask Spencer to 
pay him a little attention. If he’s in town 
before the marriage, he might ask him to 
luncheon, and take him to a committee, or 
something of that sort. Mr. Ford would 
think a great deal of it ; people of his class 
always like to talk about ‘ what the earl said 
to me;’ it naturally gratifies them.” 

These pleasing anticipations and reflections 
softened Lady L aura’s voice, as approach- 
ing the sofa she said, “Are you sleeping, 
love? — if so, don’t let me disturb you. I 
thought you had gone to bed, or I should 


have been up before. How is your head 
now ? ” 

“ Better.” 

“ I am glad of that. Mr. Ford has been 
so anxious about you ; he wanted to send 
for the doctor, but I told him you frequently 
suffered from nervous headaches, and begged 
he would not do so. He thinks you are 
very weak and delicate. It is amusing; but 
when men are in love, there is no saying 
what they may think. Has he proposed to 
you?” 

“ No.” 

“ Well, then, he intends to do so at 
once, for he has been talking to me of his 
plans for next year, and inquiring about a 
desirable situation for a town-house, which 
he said must have good reception rooms ; 
that sounded well, I thought. He also spoke 
of buying diamonds, which in the future 
would be considered family jewels, showing 
me in every way that money is not of the 
slightest consequence to him. So, my dear 
child, let me congratulate you on the brilliant 
prospect before you. You are quite sure to 
become a leader in society, and you will be 
one of the happiest women in London. I 
am longing to see the envy and disappoint- 
ment of all the people we know. Won’t I 
snub those Dacres now ? and I shall not be 
so very particular with your aunt Glanville. 

I do not see that they can help us in any 
way. Why, how pale you are looking ! I 
won’t say another word, but send Marshall to 
you. I did not know you were suffering still ; 
and I had so much to say to you.” 

“ Don’t go,” said Audrey, sitting up and 
looking at her mother, “ I want to speak to 
you. Mamma, you know how I value every- 
thing you have been speaking of, how all my 
life my one idea of happiness has been to 
have as much money as I wanted ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Lady Laura, with a 
rather surprised look at her daughter’s face. 

“You know how we have tried and 
schemed that I might make a good marriage.” 

“ My dear, don't say that now.” 

“Well, I will leave you out; but I have 
always used every art I possessed to attract 
any man I knew to be wealthy. You know 
I came herewith the one object that I would, 
if possible, marry Mr. Ford.” 

“ Well, my dear, and you will do so. What 
do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean that I shall not do so ! ” 

Lady Laura started up ; but, before she 
could say a word, Audrey stopped her. 

“ Mamma, don’t waste your time in re- 
proaches, only help me — save me from my- 


DOROTHY FOX. 


97 




self. I want to marry Mr. Ford — I want to 
have his money — but I am possessed with 
some madness, I think. I went out this 
afternoon, intending that Mr. Ford should 
ask me to be his wife, and he would have 


1 






done so, but, at the very moment, to prevent 
me saying No to him, I had to feign illness. 
Mamma, we must go away from here ; all I 
beg of you is, not to leave me alone with 
him ; when I am away perhaps this feeling 
will go, and reason will come back. Invent 
something — make any pretext for taking 
me home, only do so. Remember, I am 
not a child — no wilful girl whose head is 
turned, and who does not know her own 
mind. I am a woman conscious of my 
danger, and of the only possible way of 
escape from it. Oh ! I am so wretched. I 
cannot think or do anything. You must 
help me,” and Audrey buried her face in the 
cushions and sobbed bitterly. 

Poor Lady Laura sat for a few moments 
aghast. Every hope, every plan vanished, 
the future seemed suddenly blotted out. 
Was the girl mad ? Was this the symptom 
of some terrible illness ? She did not know, 
she seemed stunned ; she waited until the 
sobs ceased, and then she said very quietly, — 

“ Audrey, do you think you are going to 
be ill ?” 

“ No.” 


“ And you know of no reason why this ex- 
traordinary feeling should have suddenly 
come to you, for I presume it is sudden.” 

“Yes, as I told you, only this afternoon; 
after talking with you I went to meet Mr. 
Ford, intending to settle my fate, and I — I 
found I could not, and if it were to happen 
again I know I should refuse him.” 

“ Then you have not done so ?” 

“ N’b, and, mamma, let me yet have a 
chance ; don’t let him write, or speak ; say 
I am very ill, say anything, only take me 
away from here.” 

Lady Laura’s worldly wisdom did her good 
service now, and showed her that this was no 
time for reproach and recrimination. Audrey 
would not have asked her aid unless she 
had sorely needed it ; so the present was the 
time for action. She must tell Mr. Ford that 
Audrey was ill, that her anxiety was aroused, 
that she was dreadfully nervous, and that she 
must see her own doctor. Their sudden 
flight must seem to proceed entirely from her 
• fears for Audrey. 

So she said, “Go to bed now, Audrey, 
and I will decide upon some plan by to- 
morrow ; at all events keep your mind easy. 
We will go to London, as soon as it is pos- 


7 


sible. Now try and get some sleep, or I 
shall have you really ill upon my hands. 
Good night, my dear.” 

And in another moment Lady Laura’s 
arms were round her daughter, who laid 
her head against her mother’s breast as she 
cried, “ Oh ! mamma, what shall I do?” and 
then, nature being stronger than art, the 
mother tried to soothe her child, saying that 
things would be well yet. 

Audrey did not dare to confide all her 
sorrows to her mother, but the loving words 
and caresses did her good, and calmed her 
troubled heart ; and the two parted that 
night more affectionately than they had per- 
haps ever done before. 

When, however, her ladyship reached her 
own room, and threw herself into a chair, the 
weary, old look in her face told Marshall that 
something more than usual had happened, 
and she said, — 

“ You look dreadfully tired, my lady; ain’t 
you well?” . 

“ Yes, Marshall, quite well,” answered Lady 
Laura, with a si,h ; “ but I think the world 
is coming to an end.” 

“ Oh ! if that’s all, I shouldn’t put myself 
out, my lady, for I heard Deal try and Bur- 
gess fix the day full twenty years ago for it to 
come that day week, and nothing has hap- 
pened yet. The world will last our time, I 
dare say.” 

“ I’m sure I hardly care whether it does or 
not, for I am weary of it sometimes, Mar- 
shall.” 

Marshall did not reply, neither did she 
enter into further conversation ; but in her 
own mind she speculated on what could 
have happened, until, after she had bidden 
her ladyship good-night, a sudden thought 
struck her, and she inwardly exclaimed, 
“ Good gracious me ! Miss Audrey can 
never have refused old Ford — that’s impos- 
sible. Perhaps her ladyship has found out 
his money isn’t so much as she thought. It’s 
something to do with the money market, 
which with her means the marriage market. 
Well! that’s one thing which reconciles me 
to getting my own living ; you’re independ- 
ent, and where you give your hand you give 
your heart.” 

Lady Laura certainly deserved great credit 
for the manner in which she effected her 
retreat from Dyne Court. When she made 
her appearance the next morning every 
one noticed her anxious, weary look, and 
gave her credit for the nervous fears she 
expressed for her daughter. They begged 
her to allow Dr. Morcombe to be sent for, 


9 8 


DOROTHY FOX. 


as perhaps, after all, a few days’ quiet would 
restore Miss Verschoyle to perfect health. 

“ And you may depend upon it, my dear 
Lady Laura, that it is only this change of 
the season,” said Mrs. Winterton ; “ it is not 
probable that anything serious would come 
on so suddenly.” 

“ Ah ! but you do not know how delicate 
dear Audrey is. I know she does not look 
so ; and she has such spirit and energy, that 
I have known her do the most wonderful 
things while she has been really suffering 
—then all at once she would break down. 
This morning, I believe, she would have tried 
to come down, but I insisted upon her re- 
maining quietly in her room ; and I find now 
that she has been very unwell for more than 
a week.” 

Here Mr. Ford, who was of course very 
much concerned, repeated, with certain reser- 
vations, how very anxious he had been made 
the day before by one of Miss Verschoyle’s 
sudden attacks of indisposition — how she 
had begged him not to alarm her mother ; 
“ and it was only because she assured jne 
that by to-day she would be perfectly re- 
covered, that I gave up the idea of sending 
for Dr. Morcombe. But we must have him 
at once; and I will send Williams off with 
instructions to bring him back.” 

“ Mr. Ford is very kind,” said Lady Laura, 
as soon as their host had departed. “ But, 
you know, I could not be at rest till Dr. 
Kenlis has seen Audrey ; he has always at- 
tended her, and knows her constitution, and 
I have a horror of country practitioners. I 
do not know how to tell him — he will think 
me so unkind — but I must take Audrey to 
London. I am in such a nervous state, that 
I could not remain here another day on 
any account. There is Mr. Ford : I shall go 
and speak to him.” 

When Mr. Foi*j heard from Lady Laura 
that she thought she must return with her 
daughter to London, he tried every means 
in his power to dissuade her from doing 
so. Me assured her^ Af Dr. Morcombe’s 
talent, and of his own conviction that a few 
days’ rest and nursing would restore Audrey ; 
and finally offered, that if things should not 
turn out quite as they hoped, they would 
send to town for Dr. Kenlis. 

“ Thanks, dear Mr. Ford, but he wouldn’t 
come for less than a fortune ; he had a 
hundred guineas for going to see my niece, 
Lady Westfield, and their place is not so far 
from London as yours.” 

“ Well, my dear lady, if he wants two 
hundred guineas, and can do Miss Verschoyle 


any good, I shall be only too pleased to write 
my name to the cheque. I think I need 
hardly tell you, Lady Laura — that is, you 
must have seen that my very great desire is 
to have the pleasure some day — not a distant 
one, I hope — of having a right to be as 
careful of your dear daughter, madam, as 
you are yourself. And I am sure, until I 
am so fortunate, you will not object to my 
gratifying myself by expending upon her a 
trifle of that money which soon I hope to 
spend in procuring for her every comfort and 
luxury that she may desire.” 

The tears now stood in Lady Laura’s 
eyes. Oh ! to think that here was this man 
making the very offer she had so much longed 
for, and yet she could not secure it. What 
was to be done ? She would not give up 
hope, however ; it might be managed yet ; so, 
after applying her handkerchief to her eyes, 
she answered, — 

“ I dare say you will think what I am going 
to say very odd, dear Mr. Ford, and per- 
haps very few mothers would be so candid ; 
but I cannot tell you how greatly I have 
desired to see dear Audrey’s happiness en- 
trusted to your keeping. Audrey, you know, 
is very peculiar in many ways, and different 
from girls in general. She could never endure 
men of her own age, and has often said, 
when I have remarked upon this peculiarity, 

‘ No, mamma, the man whom I marry I must 
esteem and respect; these qualities are of 
more value to me than love, and will always 
secure true affection.’ I am sure, Mr. Ford, 
you will win her heart, but you must promise 
me one thing.” 

“ What is that, my dear lady ? ” 

“ Not to breathe one word of this for the 
present. If you do, I shall be wretched ; for 
Dr. Kenlis has always said, that the slightest 
excitement when Audrey’s nerves are in this 
state might produce the most fatal conse- 
quences. You know her dear father suffered 
from heart disease. Now, my dear Mr. Ford, 

I may rely upon your not speaking to her at 
present ? Believe me, it is only deferring it, 
though I have no right, perhaps, to say so ; 
but dear Audrey and I are more like sisters 
than mother and daughter ; our hearts are 
open to each other. Now, I have your 
promise ?” 

“ If you insist upon it, certainly yes; but 
I hardly see the necessity myself, and she 
may be quite well in a few days.” 

“ True, but after what has occurred, I 
cannot but think it would be better for us to 
return home at once. One never knows how 
these things get abroad; yet, when people 


DOROTHY FOX. 


99 


are together, they do ; and I could not bear 
that a remark should be made upon our re- 
maining. All things considered, I think it 
will be best for us to go co town at once. 
Audrey’s health will be sufficient plea. You 
will be coming up in a few weeks, and then 
I trust she will be quite strong. Many of 
our relations will be in London; and the 
engagement can be announced formally. 
In the meantime, I shall look upon it as 
a settled thing, and on you, my dear Mr. 
Ford, as one of the family. It is very strange, 
but in talking of entrusting my dear child to 
you, it does not seem to be like parting with 
her ; hitherto, although I should never have 
tried to influence her where her affections 
were concerned, I have shuddered at the 
thought of her marrying. Is it to be wondered 
at ? My children are all I have left to me in 
the world, and the securing of their happiness 
has been the sole aim of my life. Now I shall 
consider dear Audrey only my trust, to be 
guarded until I can give her to the man who 
will be the choice of her mother, as well as of 
herself. That is the General coming. I feel 


unequal to conversing with any indifferent 
person ; so, for the present adieu. I shall go 
and prepare Audrey gently for returning to 
London. I know it will be a dreadful trial 
for her to leave Dyne Court, and I shall be 
sorely tempted to comfort her by saying it is 
only for a time. Soon she will be here never 
to leave, unless by her own wish ; but that 
we must leave now, I feel to be only right, 
and acting for the best.” 

Mr. Ford watched her depart, hat in hand ; 
then, without waiting for General Trefusis, he 
turned into a side walk, saying, “ I wonder if 
this is her motive for leaving. There seems 
to me a little air of mystery about the pro- 
ceedings of the last day or two ; perhaps it is 
only my fancy, these fashionable ladies have 
such wonderful ways with them. What a 
humbug that woman is ! Fortunately the 
daughter does not resemble her mother, or 
she would never be asked to be my wife. 
You’re sharp, too, my lady, and you’ve got 
your wits about you ; you wouldn’t make a 
bad wife for a huckster, in spite of your blue 
blood and your long pedigree.” 



/ 


N» 


IOO 


DOROTHY FOX. 


T ■VIII- 



CHAPTER XXIII. — OFF AND ON. 

‘HEN Josiah 
Crewds o n 
got home he 
received 
such a frigid 
greeting 
from his sis- 
ters, that he 
was afraid to 
say anything 
about his 
visit to Lon- 
don. But 
when the 
sharp edge 
of their dis- 
pleasure had 
worn off, he 
said that 
Dorothy 
Fox was 
coming to York to stay with her aunt Abigail ; 
that she had also accepted the invitation 
which he had given her at their request when 
in Devonshire, and it only remained for them 
to write, naming the time which would be 
most convenient for her visit. 

The Miss Crewdsons had been grimly satis- 
fied that day by hearing that the unruly son 
of a somewhat lax cousin had disregarded his 
parents’ wishes, and utterly frustrated their 
hopes. Kezia and Jemima had always said 
that Samuel Snow would turn out badly, and 
had remonstrated with his mother on the 
excessive fondness which had made her 
foolishly blind to her son’s failings. Others 
had said the boy would come right, but j 
Jemima and Kezia knew better; and now it | 
had turned out just as they had predicted. 
They were not glad at the boy’s downfall, but 
it was pheasant to be so much more shrewd 
and far-seeing than their neighbours. 

At dinner they were more gracious to 
Josiah, and this change in their manner at 
once determined him to seize the opportunity, j 
and broach the subject nearest his heart. ; 
So, after a little attempt at finesse, he said, 

“ Grace H anbury told me she remembered 
you both.” 

“And why should she not?” demanded 
Jemima. “ She was one of the most forward 
girls I ever saw. I sincerely hope Dorothy 
does not take after her.” 

“ No,” replied Josiah, vainly endeavouring 


to keep down the colour which would fly to 
his face whenever that name was mentioned. 
“ They are not at all like each other. Dorothy 
is like her mother. She said she had her 
father’s permission to spend a little time with 
us on her way to or from York : would it 
not be best to have her before she goes to 
Abigail Fletcher’s ? ” 

The sisters exchanged glances ; and then 
Kezia said, “ Did she propose coming her- 
self, or didst thou ask her again ?” 

“ I invited her in Devonshire ; and when I 
saw her again in London I asked her if she 
were coming. I thought thou and Jemima 
would wish me to do so.” 

“ Thy sisters would wish thee to fear lying 
lips, Josiah,” said Jemima, sternly, “and to 
speak the truth as thou hast been brought up 
to do. As we once asked Dorothy Fox here, 
we still expect her to come ; but it would 
have better become thee to have consulted us 
before thou didst renew our invitation.” 

“ I cannot see why you should both be so 
changed towards her,” exclaimed Josiah, 
now bristling up in defence of Dorothy. 
“ Before I went to Devonshire you were always 
speaking in praise of the Foxes.” 

“ And now we have nothing to say against 
them or her; but it is only lair to tell thee 
that Kezia and I have observed a change in 
thee, not for the better; and we fear that 
Dorothy is in some way to blame for it. In 
our Society it is not considered modest or 
becoming for young men and women to be 
talking of loving each other ; a higher prin- 
ciple than mere human affection should be 
the motive for a consistent marriage.” 

Josiah was silent. It was impossible for 
him to argue with his sisters, or to defend 
his love, about which he often had sore 
pricks of conscience, not knowing if he were 
right in cherishing the passion which was 
daily growing stronger within him. 

Jemima’s face relaxed; she saw she had 
touched the boy, as she always called him. 
So she seated herself more firmly on her 
chair in order to carry on the good work and 
improve the opportunity. For the next hour 
Josiah listened patiently, and with apparent 
attention, to a jobation, in the form of a 
duet; for when Jemima stopped, Kezia took 
up the discourse. Each sister performed her 
part with such satisfaction to herself that, 
when they had finished, Jemima extended 
her hard bony hand to Josiah, telling him to 


I CANNOT SEE WHY YOU SHOULD BOTH BE SO CHANGED TOWARDS HER!” EXCLAIMED JOSIAH. 





















































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. 














I 













DOROTHY FOX. 


103 


be thankful that he had those about him who 
would never see him go astray without speak- 
ing words of reproof, prompted only by 
anxiety for his welfare. Kezia afterwards 
wrote to Dorothy that they would be glad 
to see her, if convenient, on her way to 
York. 

When the letter reached Dorothy, it sud- 
denly recalled her to a sense of what was 
expected of her : that she should not un- 
asked give her love to any man ; and that if 
she were asked, she should firmly deny it to 
one opposed in every way to those principles 
which she held dear. 

Of late, Charles Verschoyle had come 
frequently to Fryston, and though, when 
Grace and John were present, he only paid 
Dorothy the attention demanded by courtesy, 
when they were alone, by many an expres- 
sive look and word he showed her who 
it was that drew him constantly there, and 
why he was never contented to be absent. 
Perhaps, had Dorothy been more honest with 
herself, she might have effectually battled with 
the temptation. But the idea of her caring 
for a man who was not a Friend, and worse 
still, who was a soldier, was so repugnant to 
her that she would not face the difficulty. 
She was confident in her strength, and certain 
that nothing could make her disobey her 
father, or forget her principles. And, though 
her heart was heavy at the thought of leaving 
Fryston, she persuaded herself it was so be- 
cause of her fondness for Grace and the 
children. 

So without allowing herself time for reflec- 
tion she wrote accepting Kezia Crewdson’s 
invitation, and replied to a letter from Josiah, 
telling him she was sorry not to have seen him 
again, but that when she came to Headingley 
she hoped they would be a great deal to- 
gether. Then she ran down-stairs and asked 
Mr. H anbury to post the letters, returning to 
her room to weep the most bitter tears she 
had ever shed in her life. 

, Captain Verschoyle could not understand 
what was wrong with Dorothy. That even- 
ing he dined at the Grange, and had a tete-a- 
tete with her while Grace went for John, but 
though he repeated all the sweet sayings 
which usually made her lovely eyes look 
shyly into his, Dorothy continued in her 
most staid manner, until he was tempted to 
say more than was prudent in his eagerness 
to get one of the glances which now seemed 
to him the most desirable thing in the whole 
world. Of course he could not marry Dorothy, 
— that was out of the question. In the first 
place, she was a Quaker, and Quakers always 


marry Quakers ; here he winced a little, as if 
his first argument was not particularly pleasant 
to him ; secondly, he could not afford to 
marry without money ; and, thirdly, her 
father kept a shop. The whole affair was 
absurd : nobody would expect him to do 
such a thing. His mind then reverted to her 
prim manner, and he wondered what could 
be the matter with the child, she had 
been so different of late. Perhaps some 
one had been speaking to her about him. 
“ More than likely,” he said: “ what an extra- 
ordinary thing it is that some people can’t 
let others alone ; they must suggest, or warn, 
or interfere ! I call it unwarrantable imper- 
tinence;” and Captain Verschoyle continued 
to abuse these imaginary persons, until he 
resolved to frustrate their designs by going 
down the next day to Fryston, and driving it 
all out of the pretty creature’s head. 

And when he went, the pretty creature had 
suffered so much from the fear that she had 
offended him, and that he would not come 
again, that she threw prudence to the 
winds, looked more bewitchingly at him than 
ever, and resolutely salved her conscience by 
saying to herself, that while she was here it 
was of no use, but when she went to Head- 
ingley she would really try to like Josiah 
Crewdson. 

All in vain, therefore, did Mrs. Hanbury 
ask eligible Friends to luncheon or dinner. 
Dorothy made herself very agreeable during 
their stay, but was quite indifferent whether 
they ever came again or not. 

At last, in her disappointment, Grace con- 
fided to John that she believed in her heart 
that Dolly really cared for that gawky- 
lojking Josiah Crewdson. 

“ Oh ! I dare say,” replied her husband 
stolidly. 

“ Thou dare say !” repeated Grace ; “ why, 
John, thou hast never seen him; thou dost 
not know what he is like.” 

“ Thou hast given me a very full descrip- 
tion of his peculiarities,” laughed John, ‘‘end- 
ing with the invariably expressed opinion of 
his worth and goodness which usually finishes 
the portraiture of a plain and awkward per- 
son.” 

“ I really do not think that I have dealt 
hardly with him,” said Grace, with a rather 
rueful face, “ and I believe in his kind disposi- 
tion ; but it does seem a sacrifice to marrv 
Dolly to him, and bury her in that dull house 
at Headingley.” 

“Well, my dear, but if it be her pleasure, 
why annoy thyself ? She is not compelled to 
marry Crewdson.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


104 


“ But father wishes it so much : he has set 
his he art upon the match.” 

“ Ah ! a great many fathers and mothers 
set their hearts on matches that never come 
off, my dear.” 

“ Yes, but Dorothy is different from most 
girls, John ; she would never marry any one 
of whom father did not approve.” 

“ Hum !” said John, screwing his mouth 
in a comical way. “ If Fate had decreed 
that I should be the man upon whom your 
sister had set her affection, I should not fear 
the disapprobation of fifty fathers. Where 
that young lady bestows her love, she will 
not keep much back for anybody else ; and 
she’s too much her father’s daughter to give 
up easily what she has set her heart upon.” 

“ Josiah Crewdson is wealthy, I suppose?” 
said Grace. 

“ Yes, he is said to be a rich man. His 
father left him a considerable amount of pro- 
perty, besides the business, which I hear is 
rapidly increasing. Josiah Crewdson is con- 
sidered a very shrewd, safe fellow.” 

“ However, that need not influence Doro- 
thy,” answered Grace, “for she is sure to 
have a good fortune. Besides her mother’s 
money, all Aunt Abigail’s is certain to come 
to her.” 

“ Rich, young, and beautiful ! What more 
can man desire?” 

“ Why, that she should desire him ; and 
I have seen no sign of that yet.” 

“Well,” said John, laughing, “do you 
know that it has struck me that there has 
been a considerable amount of philandering 
lately, under our very sharp noses, without 
our taking much account of it.” 

“What dost thou mean?” asked Grace, 
in a tone of surprise. 

“ I mean, my dear, that, notwithstanding 
my firm belief that we are two of the most 
interesting and attractive people to be met 
with in the United Kingdom, yet when 
Dorothy leaves us, we shall not be just so 
frequently favoured with visits from our friend 
Captain Verschoyle.” 

“ Nonsense. What is there to make thee 
imagine such a thing?” 

“ Well, for one thing— whenever we are out 
walking they always manage to fall behind.” 

“ That is only because we are talking 
together, and they wish to keep at a little 
distance from us.” 

“ Yes ; but there is a limit to most people’s 
distance. But, unless it’s out *of sight and 
hearing, I have not discovered the limit to 
theirs. Then, when we are in the house, 
they are in the garden ; and if we are in the 


garden, the objects of interest to them in the , 
opposite direction are really surprising. Why, ^ 
Grace, it is not so long since our own love- 
making days that thou shouldst forget all its 
cunning devices.” 

“ I have not forgotten one of them,” she 
said, looking at him tenderly ; “ but I cannot 
believe that what thou art thinking of is true. 
However, I shall now take care to watch 
them narrowly.” 

“ Quite right,” said her husband, preparing 
to leave ; “ for I have a suspicion that Grace, 
as well as Love, is sometimes blind.” 

CHAPTER XXIV. “ ALL THAT IS RIGHT.” 

It was the last week of October, and the 
last week of Dorothy’s visit to Fryston. On j 
the following Thursday she was to leave for 
Headingley. Captain Verschoyle still re 
mained in London. At first he said business 
detained him, but the business was no more 
than the ordering of a shooting suit. Then he 
overstayed Colonel Stapleton’s invitation ; and j 
after disappointing Stapleton he couldn’t go 
anywhere else; so he decided to stay now 
until Harry Egerton returned to Darington. 

Mr. Egerton had been at Darington a 
week ; still his godson lingered in town, until 
a letter from Audrey announced Lady Laura’s 
intention of returning home, to which was 
added, as a bit of sisterly advice, that unless 
he was equal to squalls he had better disap- 
pear at once. 

“That decides me,” thought Captain Vers- 
choyle after reading the letter. “ I must not 
encounter her ladyship at present ; so I shall 
run down to the Hanburys and tell them I 
have been called away suddenly. I wonder 
how Dorothy will take it. Of course we both 
knew the time must come for saying, ‘ Adieu, 
my love, for evermore adieu but it’s none 
the more pleasant for that. If I saw much 
more of her f verily believe I should make 
an ass of myself — as it is, we are neither of 
us at all compromised. I believe the child 
loves me, and I never felt it so hard to give 
up any girl before. Ah ! I was always an 
unfortunate beggar. I never met a girl yet 
that I liked but she was sure either not to 
have a penny, or to belong to a family beyond 
the pale of the magic circle.” 

Here Captain Verschoyle looked at his 
watch, and resolved to catch the early train, 
Mrs. Hanbury having announced to him her 
intention of not returning from London until 
five o’clock. 

Of course he could not see the sweet pic- 
ture that Dorothy made as she stood half- 
way up the hedge-bank, holding back the nut 


DOROTHY FOX. 


T °5 


branches in a strained, eager, listening atti- 
tude, trying to make sure that she heard the 
coming train in the distance, while with every 
rapid beat her heart seemed to cry aloud, 
“ Will he come? Will he come?” 

Captain Verschoyle got out of the train and 
walked to the house. He hoped that he would 
find Dorothy alone, for then he knew he 
should see the soft colour leap into her cheeks, 
and die away so slowly ; he knew that he 
should feel her little hand tremble in his like a 
frightened bird ; and he knew that the shy 
eyes would meet his, and be dropped again 
before he had taken in half of their beauty, 
making him determine to have them lifted 
again and again. And yet he could say 
they both “ meant nothing,” and that they 
were not in the least committed to one 
another. 

Dorothy remained in her elevated position 
until she saw the smoke of the train puffing 
on and away. Then she 'scrambled down 
and tried to stay patiently, beguiling the 
tedious waiting by many a youthful device. 
At length she felt so certain that more than 
the given time had elapsed that she deter- 
mined to run in and look at the hall clock. 
Turning quickly out from the nut-walk, 
she found herself face to face with Captain 
Verschoyle, who took both her hands in his, 
and bending towards her, said : “ Were you 
running to meet me ? I shall keep you 
prisoner until you tell me.” 

. “Yes— no — that is, I was going to see if 
thou hadst come.” 

“ Then you expected me ? ” 

“No, I did not quite.” 

“ Not expect me, and yet tell me you 
were going to see if I had come !” he said in 
a disappointed tone. 

“ I did not expect thee, but I hoped that 
thou wouldst come.” 

Oh ! the coy sweet eyes that met his, how 
lovely they were ! He could have taken her in 
his arms that very moment. 

They walked back through the nut-walk, he 
expressing much surprise at ' hearing that 
Mrs. Han bury was in London. 

“ Grace thought she had told thee,” ex- 
claimed Dorothy ; “ she said it was just pos- 
sible thou mightst come down by this train, 
and if so, I — ” 

“Well?” 

“ Was to amuse thee until she came.” 

“ What a shameful task to impose upon 
your young shoulders!” said Captain Vers- 
choyle. “ You will require to exert yourself 
to your utmost.” 

“ Indeed, no,” she replied, laughing, “ for it 


is thou who wilt amuse me. I like to listen 
when thou art talking.” 

“ Dorothy — I may call you Dorothy, may 
I not?” 

“ Oh yes !” and her quick colour told how 
sweet the name sounded. 

“ Of course,” he continued, “ all your 
friends call you Dorothy. Then, Dorothy, 
when we are parted will you think of me 
sometimes ?” 

“ Parted ! ” Ah, she remembered, in a 
week she would be away from Fryston ; she 
was looking very grave now. “ Think of 
thee ? ” she repeated. 

“ Why,” he said with affected impatience, 
“*is it impossible for you to do so ? Will you 
forget me at once for some other who will 
amuse you ? Oh, Dorothy !” 

“ Thou knowest well I do not mean that.” 
she said, looking straight at him. “ I could 
not forget thee,” she added, while her voice 
came with a tremor which she endeavoured 
to suppress by saying, “ but I am not going 
for a week yet.” 

“ But I am.” 

“ Thou ! ” 

“ Yes, I must go to see my godfather.” 

His heart reproached him when he saw 
how pale she became ; — poor darling, she, 
too, would feel the parting. In spite of his 
pity, however, an exultant feeling of joy came 
over him. But his voice was most despond- 
ing as he said, “ You will have gorte before I 
return from York.” 

York ! that was where Aunt Abigail lived ; 
suppose it should be near, and they were to 
meet again. 

‘ My aunt Abigail lives near York,” she 
said ; “ I am going to see her before I return 
home.” 

Captain Verschoyle’s heart gave a leap, and 
his blood tingled in his veins, as he ex- 
claimed — 

“My dear child, is it* possible that you 
are going to York ? How delightful ! we shall 
be there together perhapV’ 

“ I — I was thinking of asking to be allowed 
to go home instead ; I have been away from 
my mother so long that I do not care about 
visiting any more.” 

“ But not now; — you will go to York" 
now?” he said eagerly; then bending close 
to her, he repeated, “ You will go now ; I am 
sure you would say yes if you could under- 
stand how happy it would make me.” 

Dorothy* did not answer; her colour 
changed, her eyelids quivered, and her mouth 
tightened one moment to relax the next, and 
gradually open like a fresh rosebud. 


io 6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


Several times during their interview Charles 
Verschoyle’s conscience had asserted its. If, 
giving him sharp pricks, and asking if he 
were acting up even to his own code of 
honour ; but he would not listen now. 
What cared he at that moment for anything 
but the certainty that the girl loved him with 
all the ^jarmth of her heart? He had laid 
his love* at the feet of fair ones before ; had 
vowed and sighed, and had been met on equal 
ground. He had been courted, flattered, 
caressed, but never loved by a girl who art- 
lessly betrayed what she strove to conceal. 
When she looked at him she did so because 
she was drawn to him irresistibly ; when she 
blushed, it was the shy blush of girlish inno- 
cence, with no thought of the effect pro- 
duced. Such a woman wa? a novelty to 
a man like #Charles Verschoyle. He en- 
joyed Dorothy’s tell-tale face and the sweet 
secret it betrayed, without a thought ol 
anything beyond the present moment. Time 
enough for reflection when they were apart 
from each other. 

“ Dorothy,” he almost whispered, “ will you 
not say that you will go now ? ” 

No answer. 

“ Ah ! it is nothing to you that we are 
parted,” he said, turning from her with a dis- 
contented sigh. “ You want to be back in 
Devonshire with your mother ; and you do not 
care if I suffer.” 

There was a pause, and then he«felt a little 
hand laid upon his arm, and Dorothy’s sweet 
eyes looked beseechingly into his, as she said 
timidly, “ Say, would it really make thee more 
happy if I went ? ” 

Who could resist it? The temptation was 
too strong for Charles Verschoyle, so he 
framed the sweet face in his hands, and said, 
“ Dorothy, do you love me ? ” 

“Yes,” said the glad eyes; “yes,” said 
the soft mouth, and “ yes ” seemed to be 
echoed by the throbbing of her heart. 

“ With all your heart ? ” 

“Yes,” and the eyes looked straight into 
his. 

“ Better than all the world ? ” 

“Yes.” . . . 

And the autumn winds sighed softly, and 
rustled among the leaves overhead ; but 
Dorothy heeded not ; and the roses shed their 
j leaves despairingly at her feet, but she saw 
'them not. For love held back the sands ol 
Time, and flooded all around with his golden 
light. 

“ My darling ! I hear some one coming.” 

“ Coming— here?” she said in a terrified 
voice; “what shall I do?” 


“Turn down the path and go into the 
house by the other way, and I will meet 
them and say all that is right.” 

She did' not wait for another word ; and 
Captain Verschoyle saunte ed along the nut- 
walk, until the footsteps came near, and 
.Mrs. H anbury exclaimed — 

“What, by yourself? Where is that 
naughty sister of mine ? I expected to find 
her politely entertaining you.” 

“ So she has been ; but her anxiety to 
ascertain if you had arrived overcame her 
politeness, and she ran into the house a few 
minutes since.” 

“ And, now, how are you ?” said Grace. 
“I am so glad you decided to come ; for 
John is bringing a friend to dinner. I have 
never seen him ; but he says we shall all like 
him. You came down by the three o’clock 
train, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes. I looked for you at the station, 
but did not see you. Had I been quite sure 
you were coming by this train, of course I 
would have waited for you.” 

There was a [jause ; and Grace thought 
something was wrong with her friend ; for do 
what he would, Captain Verschoyle was not 
at ease, and could not provide small talk as 
usual. •' 

Grace observed this restraint, as well as 
the nervous way in which he twisted one 
end of his moustache. So she told him 
where she had been, what purchases she 
had made, and smiled internally to think of 
poor Dolly’s state of mind when sustaining 
the conversation by herself. She did not 
wonder now at her running in to see if the 
train had brought her to the rescue. 

When they got in-doors, Dorothy was not 
to be seen. Mrs. Hanbury announced her 
intention of going at once to look for her ; but 
Captain Verschoyle asked her a question, 
which, he said, had been puzzling him, about 
one of Leslie’s pictures. 

This entailed another half-hour’s conversa- 
tion, and then the children came in ; and it 
was dusk before Dorothy made her appear- 
ance, stammering out something about think- 
ing they were in the garden. 

“ Bless the child,” laughed Grace. “ We 
have not taken leave of our senses yet. We 
came in-doors nearly an hour ago. I only 
went out to look for you, and we returned 
at once. Now it is time we did a little 
adornment ; lor John is bringing a friend 
with him.” Turning to Captain Verschoyle, 
she added, “He is a gentleman with whom 
John is very much pleased, ior the manner 
m which he conducted a troublesome lawsuit 


DOROTHY FOX. 


107 


in which the firm was lateiy engaged. He 
has a somewhat romantic history too.” 

“ Indeed !” replied Captain Verschoyle, in 
such a tone that Mrs. Hanbury knew that she 
might as well reserve her story, for to-night 
it would fall on very dull ears. So she arose, 
saying — 

“ But while I am talking, I am forgetting 
how the time is going. Come, Dolly, we must 
go and dress ; ” and the sisters left the room. 

Captain Verschoyle stretched himself, and 
gazed into the fire for fully twenty minutes. 
Whether his thoughts were happy or not, his 
face did not indicate; only at the end of 
that time he started up, and said — 

“Well, I cannot help it now; and if it 
were all to come over again, I would act 
in exactly the same way. But what’s to 
be the end of it, or what I mean, I really 
cannot tell.’* 

He then rang the bell, and desired Cannon 
to show him his room, determining not to worry 
himself more that night with such reflections. 

Notwithstanding, it was not the amount 
of care he bestowed upon his personal ap- 
pearance that detained him at his toilette so 
long that when he appeared in the drawing- 
room all were assembled. 

John Hanbury was showing his wife a new 
photograph. By Dorothy’s side sat Geoffrey 
Dynecourt. The blood rushed into his face 
as Captain Verschoyle exclaimed, — 

“Why, Dynecourt, when did you come 
back ? I thought you were out in the country.” 

“ I might echo your words, for you were 
expected the same day that I left Mr. Ford’s.’’ 

“ Ah, but, *you see, I never turned up ;” 
and Captain Verschoyle laughed, for Lady 
Laura had been very careful not to inform 
her son of his rival’s flitting. 

“ Ah ! you are friends already,” said Grace ; 
“ that is delightful.” 

“Yes, we were staying together in a 
country-house the other day, and a very jolly 
time we had. You stayed a week beyond 
me, Dynecourt. What did you all do? 
Poor old Ford got ill, did he not ? 

“ Yes, but he soon recovered.” 

It cost Mr. Dynecourt an effort to appear 
at ease, and to speak in his usual tone of 
voice. He longed to ask Captain Verschoyle 
if his mother and sister were in London, but 
to mention Audrey in an indifferent voice, 
and with a careless manner, was simply im- 
possible. 

“ By the way, did that second picnic come 
off?” 

“The second picnic ! Oh yes.” 

u I wonder,” thought Captain Verschoyle, 


“ if he was sweet upon Miss Bingham ; it 
looks like it ; he seems to shirk talking about 
the party.” 

Just then dinner was announced, and the 
conversation passed to other subjects, until 
Captain Verschoyle said, “ My mother is 
coming to London in a day or two with my 
sister, who has been ill and laid up at Dyne. 
Court for more than a week.” 

There was an awkward pause, and then 
Mr. Dynecourt replied, “ Indeed ! has she?” 

Grace, with a woman’s tact, saw that all 
was not plain sailing, so she contrived to 
direct the conversation into another channel. 

Captain Verschoyle was too much occupied 
with his own affairs to be much impressed 
by any one’s manner ; he only wondered for 
a moment if his mother had been talking too 
much about Miss Bingham an^ him, and so 
had offended Dynecourt. 

Grace, in her own mind, came nearer the 
mark. Dorothy, who had hardly spoken during 
dinner, asked Mr. Dynecourt, when Grace and 
the Captain were at the piano, if he did not 
think Audrey Verschoyle very lovely. 

“ Do you know her?” he asked. 

“ I met her once in Devonshire ; and I 
shall never forget her.” 

Mr. Dynecourt recalled the evening that 
he and Audrey had spent in Mr. Ford’s room, 
and the description which site had given of 
the lovely young Quaker and her mother. 
Surely thi* was the girl Audrey had longed 
to be like. Oh, if she had been like her, 
how different this life might have been ! He 
knew now that, in spite of the bitterness of 
his words at parting, and the determination 
he formed then to forget her and to learn 
to hate her, it was impossible. She would 
occupy a higher place in his heart than any 
woman he would ever meet again. Often, 
when he sat in his chambers, weary and 
worn by his hard work, he would recall the 
injustice she had done him ; and then, after 
enumerating her faults, her worldliness, her 
coldness of heart — dwelling on every soft 
seduction as a trick— he would almost grind 
his teeth, as he exclaimed — “And, knowing 
all this, I can love her still ! Fool that I am !*’ 

A thousand wild thoughts filled his mind 
when he heard that Audrey had been ill — he 
was glad, sorry. Could she have been think- 
ing about him? Had she refused Mr. Ford? 
This gentle girl evidently knew nothing of 
her — would, perhaps, never see her again ; so 
he might indulge in speaking of Audrey, and 
hear her spoken of, where there was no 
chance of his secret being discovered. 

So Dorothy tried to arouse herself from 


io8 


DOROTHY FOX. 


her own dream, to talk to her grave-looking 
companion. She did not tell him what had 
brought Audrey and Charles Verschoyle to 
King’s-heart. She only described their visit, 
and praised Audrey so much, that Mr. Dyne- 
court was delighted with her. He sat listen- 
ing so earnestly that Captain Verschoyle 
was quite annoyed. Further on in the even- 
ing, when Dorothy went to bring something 
for her sister, and Geoffrey turned to Mrs. 
Hanbury, saying, “ How lovely your sister is ! 
I have not been so charmed with any one for 
a long time,” Captain Verschoyle thought — 
u What can the fellow mean ? ” 

CHAPTER XXV. IN DOUBT AND GRIEF 

AND HOPE. 

Though Grace Hanbury told her husband 
that she still Relieved his suspicions concern- 
ing Dorothy and Captain Verschoyle to be 
entirely unfounded, she considered it prudent 
to err on the safe side : by which she meant, 
that the two should now have as few oppor- 
tunities of meeting each other as possible. 

“ Dorothy will leave us in a few days,” 
she said, “and Captain Verschoyle told me 
he. was soon going out of town to visit his 
godfather. So, John, dost thou not think it 
is as well to try and keep them apart?” 

“ Certainly,” answered her husband, laugh- 
ing ; “ although I am forcibly reminded of 
the Chester saying, ‘ When the daughter ’s 
stolen, lock the Pepper gate.’ ” f , 

“ Nonsense,” said Grace, a little vexed. 
“ If Dorothy is struck by him, I am quite 
sure it is no serious wound ; and as for him, 
I believe it is his nature to pay attention to 
any woman he happens to be near. You 
may depend upon it he has no intention but 
that of making himself agreeable.” 

“ He is very well connected,” said Mr. 
Hanbury ; “ it comes out every now and 
then. His uncle is Lord Tonmouth, and 
his mother is a lady of title.” 

“ J ust so ; and that makes the notion of 
any engagement between them absurd. I 
hope 1 have not been careless. I don’t 
really think I have — only I have taken fright 
now.” 

“ Don’t do that, dear,” said John kindly. 
“ There may be nothing in it ; but next time he 
writes, say thou hast an engagement, and fix 
a day when Dolly will have left us.” 

In accordance with this decision, when 
the next day a letter came from Captain Vers- 
choyle saying that he hoped to see them on 
Tuesday, Mrs. Hanbury wrote to inform him 
that they were all going to spend that day 
with J ohn’s mother at Hampstead. But she 


asked him to come on the following Satur- 
day instead. 

Captain Verschoyle in his heart felt re- 
lieved, at not having just then to face Mrs. 
Hanbury, but he wrote in reply that he was 
compelled to leave London immediately, and 
hoped to see them on his return. He re- 
quested her to convey to her sister his 
adieux, and expressed his regret at being un- 
able to make them in person. He thought 
this was really cleverly managed. Dorothy 
would, of course, understand the plan, though 
she would not perhaps see the motive which 
prompted it. Here, however, he was mistaken. 

Mrs. Hanbury had more tact than most 
women, but she would never have made a 
diplomatist. At the very time when there 
was need for concealment, stratagem, or 
finesse, Grace turned out a decided bungler, 
showing by her awkward manner how foreign 
chicanery was to her frank and open nature. 
Captain Verschoyle’s first letter having been 
kept secret from Dorothy, the arrival of the 
second, with its message, rather put her out. 
She felt Dorothy would suspect something 
because of the awkward manner in which she 
blurted fcut the intelligence without looking 
at her. Dorothy murmured something in 
reply which Grace did not catch. When she 
did cast a furtive look at her young sister, 
she saw that her face was white and her lips 
tightly pressed together. 

“ Poor child ! ” thought Grace, “ I fear 
there is something in John’s suspicions. I 
should have been more watchful, but I had 
better take no notice now.” Therefore, though 
her kind heart prompted her to say some 
sympathetic words, she refrained, and allowed 
Dorothy to leave the room. 

It must not be presumed that since the 
evening when Dorothy and Charles Vers- 
choyle parted in the garden, she had thought 
nothing more of their interview. But no one 
who knew Dorothy would have believed her 
possessed of such strength of mind as made 
her appear to others the same happy and 
contented girl she had formerly been. Of 
the tears which regret and unconquerable 
love drew from her eyes, no trace was visible 
in the morning, though half the night was 
spent in imaginary interviews with her lovpr, 
in which he pleaded vainly that she would 
renounce her principles and become a soldier’s 
wife. * 

Dorothy firmly resolved never to marry any 
man but Charles Verschoyle ; yet marry him 
she could not. What ! lorget her father, her 
mother, and all the lessons they had taught 
her ! And for a stranger, too ! Impossible I 


DOROTHY FOX. 


109 


Yet Dorothy’s happiest dream was that j 
Charles Verschoyle might forsake his profes- j 
sion, and become of like mind with Friends j 
in every other way. She never doubted that 
she should see him again. But she resolved | 
that this interview should be their last, and j 
that she would tell him they must part. It 
was only when the news of his departure j 
came, that she knew how much hope had 
hitherto sus'amed her. Now, as she sat 


gazing vacantly, she could only repeat to her- 
self the word “ Gone !” — gone without seeing 
her, without a word ! What could it mean? 
Then the hot blood rushed to her face, as the 
terrible thought flashed upon her that she had 
acted in an unmaidenly manner in so openly 
betraying her love, and thus had lost his 
respect for ever. “ Oh, but to see him again, 
only once again !” rose from her heart. 

Dorothy knew well that she had no right 



Page 104. 


to go to the Crewdsons, now that her duty endeavoured to give no heed to the whispered 
was to return home, and at the very least j hope, — “ Perhaps at York I shall see him 
tell her father that she could not marry again a hope prompted by a newly- 
Josiah. But her feelings led one way and awakened feeling more potent than early 
her duty the other, and she argued that it prejudices or principles. Therefore her fits 
would be better that Josiah should get her j of penitence— of horror that she was de- 
adverse decision from her own lips. Then, ceiving her parents, and of shame that 
her aunt expected her, and it would be selfish i she was disregarding the rules of the 
to disappoint dear Aunt Abigail. While all Society— had their sway for the moment, 
this passed through Dorothy’s mind, she and then died away. This hope, however, 





I IO 


DOROTHY FOX. 


lived on, smouldering sometimes, fiercely 
burning at others, but ever there to com- 
fort and sustain its sweet companion, Love. 
Therefore Dorothy did not speak of return- 
ing home; and it was finally arranged that 
under the care of one of Grace’s servants, 
who was going to York for her holiday, she 
would leave Fryston on the Thursday follow- 
ing for Leeds. 

CHAPTER XXVI. — MISS BROCKLEHURST 
SPEAKS HER MIND. 

Lady Laura Verschoyle and her daughter 
had again taken possession of 2 7 a, Egmont 
Street. Their departure from Dyne^ Court 
had been delayed by Audrey’s real illness. 
Her anxiety had induced a feverish, nervous 
attack which rendered her removal impos- 
sible; and for ten days she had been in 
reality an invalid. Since then they had been 
living at Hastings, in the hope that the sea 
air would recruit her health. 

Miss Brocklehurst, who was Lady Laura’s 
cousin, had a house there, and during their 
stay they were her guests. 

Lady Laura, for the first time in her life, 
felt great anxiety about Audrey’s health. 
She made up her mind to consult a physician 
whenever they returned to London. She 
was quite certain that there was something 
seriously wrong with Audrey, else why this 
unusual and extraordinary conduct? To 
Miss Brocklehurst alone did she confide her 
fears, hoping that her cousin might suggest 
some solution of a mystery which puzzled 
her greatly. 

“And now, my dear Maria,” said her 
ladyship, as she concluded her statement, 
“ can you suggest any motive or reason for 
such unaccountable behaviour ?” 

“ Not if you are telling me the whole 
truth,” answered Miss Brocklehurst. “ But 
are you sure that you are not keeping in the 
background some good-looking but penniless 
young man to whom Audrey has lost her 
heart — of which I should say she had very 
little, by-the-bye — as well as her head, which 
is her strong point, for I do not think your 
daughter a beauty, Laura, and I have always 
told you so.” 

“Disgusting old maid!” thought Lady 
Laura to herself ; “ when Audrey is married 
to Mr. Ford I really think I’ll tell her my 
mind.” But she answered blandly, “ So you 
have, dear cousin ; but still, she gets an im- 
mense deal of attention.” 

“ Ah, so did I when I was young.” 

“Your fifty thousand pounds may have,” 
her ladyship thought to herself as she con- 


tinued aloud — “ I am sure you did. But 
you were asking about young men. Well, 
there was not one there, save Charles and a 
Mr. Dynecourt, who was dying for Miss Bing- 
ham, the girl to whom Charles behaved so 
shamefully.” 

“Shamefully !” echoed Miss Brocklehurst 
contemptuously : “ with you, Laura, that 
depends on the amount of money the girl 
has. You defended him warmly enough in 
that affair with Constance Stanmore.” 

“Now, nfy dear Maria, I assure you, you 
were quite mistaken in that girl ; she was as 
artful as could be, and laid a trap for poor 
Charles.” 

“Poor Charles, indeed!” laughed Miss 
Brocklehurst; “he’s a fit subject for pity, 
certainly. Nonsense, Laura, I have no pa- 
tience with you. Charles is a favourite of 
mine. Like his poor father, he has a deal of 
good in him if it only got a chance of coming 
out ; but I am not blind to his being as 
selfish as he can be, and if somebody or 
something does not alter him he’ll be a self- 
indulgent, middle-aged man, if not a tho- 
roughly wicked and disagreeable old one.” 

“I am sure,” began Lady Laura in an 
aggrieved voice, “ I don’t know why you 
should say such things of my poor children. 
I am sure Audrey and Charles are devoted to 
you, Maria.” 

“ No, they are not,” replied Miss Brockle- 
hurst, with an amused smile on her face; 
“ and better still, they don’t pretend to be. 
Whenever I get a bit of toadying from them 
it comes from them with a bad grace that all 
your drilling cannot hide. I am not speaking 
against them, Laura, for in my way I am 
fond of them both ; but you and I are rela- 
tions, you know, and relations can afford to 
say what they think, and speak the truth to 
each other. You always do , I know, so you 
must allow me the same privilege. I can 
tell you that I consider your children’s bring- 
ing up would have spoiled the finest nature 
ever bestowed on a human being. Now 
don’t begin about the sacrifices you have 
made, because every time you have wanted 
to borrow a hundred pounds I have heard 
all about them. I am not blaming you, 
Laura ; for though they are your children 
they are no more like you than I am, and 
I dare say you understand them just as little.” 

By this time Lady Laura had made very 
free use of that valuable accessory, her hand- 
kerchief. Whether her tears ever did really 
flow no one knew, but from the display she 
made of her handkerchief, the effect generally 
produced was good. 


DOROTHY FOX. 


1 1 1 


“ Of course,” she answered in a subdued 
tone, “ I can say nothing ; but it is rather 
hard to have done all a mother could do for 
Audrey, and then, because she takes some 
idle whim, to have it said to me that I have 
been negligent, and have allowed her to com- 
promise herself with some penniless — adven- 
turer ” 

Miss Brocklehurst could not forbear laugh- 
ing at Lady Laura allowing the hard knocks 
to go by, and settling upon an imaginary 
grievance. “ Oh, make your mind easy on that 
score,” she said ; “ I do not suppose poor 
Audrey’s character will ever come forth with 
such strength that she will refuse a rich, vulgar 
old man, because some fascinating fellow of 
her own age and condition has taken her heart 
captive. If she did so I should be proud of 
my god-daughter, as I am of Charley, if want 
of love was his true motive in this Bingham 
affair.” 

Even Lady Laura’s patience had its limits. 
This was too much for her. And she rose, 
saying angrily — 

“ I really believe, Maria, if my children 
married beggars, or the very tradespeople’s 
belongings, you would be delighted, and 
triumph over me.” 

“ No, I should not, Laura. I should be 
sorry ; although, perhaps, it would be better 
for them than many matches which the world 
calls splendid and eligible. Don’t be angry ; 
remember I have had fifty years’ rivalry with 
money. To it most of the lovers I ever 
had paid their court; and so I glory over 
every defeat of Mammon, and rejoice when 
mine ancient enemy gets the worst of it. 
There, there; sit down, and don’t look so 
mournful. If, as you say, there is nobody 
else to influence her choice, of course it must 
be an idle whim, which will soon pass over ; 


so that, before the end of the season, Croesus 
will doubtless be your son-in-law.” 

Could Audrey have heard this conversa- 
tion, it might have given her a grain of that 
comfort she just now stood so sorely in need 
of. She longed for some one to talk to about 
this care which was destroying her peace 
of mind. She thought of the women she 
had known — women who had undoubtedly 
married for money or position. Had they 
gone through such struggles and temptations ? 
Had they fought, and conquered, and come 
forth victorious, wreathed with triumphant 
smiles? Night and day the conflict seemed 
to go on within her, and from it there was 
no rest nor respite ; she could make no deci- 
sion, and arrive at no conclusion. She had 
great dread of meeting Mr. Ford before her 
mind was fully made up. At Hastings she was 
safe ; but once back in Egmont Street, he 
might present himself to her at any/noment. 

Miss Brocklehurst looked at her earnestly, 
as they stood waiting for the train ; and, while 
Lady Laura was asking Marshall some ques- 
tions, she said, “ Audrey, if you want another 
change at any time, remember you can always 
come to me. Nonsense, my dear, it is only 
right ; you are my godchild, you know.” 

After they had gone, Miss Brocklehurst, 
meditating on the care-worn look on Audrey’s 
face, said to herself, “ There’s something on 
that girl’s mind, I am certain. There’s more 
in this sudden change than meets the eye. I 
wonder what it can be ? Her mother said 
she had not seen any one ; but then Laura’s 
a fool, and never speaks the truth. On my way 
home I’ll propose to stay in Egmont Street 
for a few days, and then I shall find out 
more about it. She looks very ill, and altered. 
It may be some hopeless love affair. Poor 
Audrey I” 







12 


DOROTHY FOX. 


3P-AJE&T IX. 


CHAPTER XXVII. — EQUAL TO THE OCCASION. 

HEN Lady 
Laura Vers- 
choyle left 
Dyne Court 
she pro- 
mised to 
write to Mr. 
Ford on 
their arrival 
in Egmont 
Street, and 
said that 
she should 
then expect 
to hear 
when they 
might see 
him there. 
They had 
now been at 
home more 
than a week, and although she feared that 
Audrey was not yet in a state to receive her 
eligible admirer, she could not longer delay 
writing to Mr. Ford. 

“ Now,” thought her ladyship, “ I must so 
word this note that his fears will not be 
unduly excited, for his anxiety might bring 
him to town at once. But I should like him 
to know that Audrey is too unwell to bear 
any agitation. Dear me, how thankful I 
shall be when it is all settled, and she is 
married ! I cannot stand these worries as I 
once did.” She sat thinking thus for some 
time, and then wrote : — 

“ My dear Mr. Ford,— I have been 
wanting so m"ch to write to you ever since 
my return home, which was on Saturday.” 
(“ Perhaps,” she said, “ he’ll think that means 
the day before yesterday.”) “I know you 
are very anxious to hear about our dear 
Audrey. What a comfort it is for me to 
remember that now I have some one who has 
a right to share all my troubles on her ac- 
count ! Dear girl, I wish I could give a 
more satisfactory account of her. Her ner- 
vous system continues in such a sensitive 
state, that Dr. Kenlis says the slightest excite- 
ment might bring a relapse. Still, he assures 
me there is no cause for anxiety. By the 
end of another month, if his directions are 
attended to, and she is kept perfectly quiet , 
she will be quite her former self. Of course 


I feel bound to comply with his injunctions, 
although, I confess, I am greatly tempted to 
disobey them, and ask you to come and see 
us. I do not think she will put up with this 
restriction much longer. She is constantly 
speaking of your promised visit. I dare not 
tell her that I am writing, for she would in- 
sist on seeing the letter, and she has no idea 
of her own weakness. This is the reason why 
you have no message from her. I cannot 
tell you, dear Mr. Ford, how eagerly I look 
forward to certain coming events, or how sure 
I feel that in entrusting my beloved child to 
your keeping I am securing her happiness, 
and the happiness of her mother as well. 

“ Yours most truly and affectionately, 

“ Laura Verschoyle.” 

“Now I don’t think I have said so much as 
will lead him to come ; nor so little that he 
will fancy we don’t want him. I think I shall 
have another conversation with Audrey. She 
must be brought round, of course. I cannot 
think what madness has seized her. She 
gives no reason, but, like a parrot, senselessly 
repeats, * I cannot help it. If you let him 
come here, I know I shall refuse him.’ It is 
really more than human nature can endure. 
Job, indeed! I never read that he had a 
trial of this kind. However, she shall have 
no new dresses ; and I am determined that 
I shall neither ask any one here, nor take her 
anywhere. I think if I can carry out this plan 
I am sure to succeed. I have put forth every 
effort to find out what she means, and I have 
tried Marshall in every way, but I don’t 
believe she knows anything either, although 
she’s as artful as can be.” 

Never during the whole course of her life 
had her ladyship been so much puzzled. 
Audrey had tried by every means to avoid 
being left alone with her mother, as she was 
sure the conversation would turn upon the 
one subject. At Hastings these manoeuvres 
were comparatively easy; but now oppor- 
tunities were constantly occurring, and she 
had to listen to long dissertations on the 
impossibility of their continuing to live in 
the same style ; Lady Laura urging that she 
must give up her carriage. 

After despatching her letter to Mr. Ford, 
her ladyship went into the dining-room, where 
her daughter was writing. She meant to try 
her skill once more. 

“What a dismal day this is, to be surel 



DOROTHY FOX. 


XI 3 


November in London is quite unbearable ; 
one ought to be in excellent health to endure 
this continual fog and rain.” 

“ I don’t think we have had much cause to 
complain of the weather yet, mamma : yester- 
day was a lovely day.” 

“ Well, my dear, perhaps you are able to 
enjoy things more than I can. My spirits are 
so bad, that it makes little difference to me 
whether the day be bright or gloomy. The 
disappointments I have had have been rather 
too much for me. But I am foolish to talk 
of them, for only sensitive people have any 
feeling for the sufferings . of others. I often 
think of dear Lady Lascelles. She used to 
say I was the only one who could give her 
any comfort, because I so entirely sympa- 
thized with her. Poor thing ! what a martyr 
she was — confined to her room for years, and 
often for months not able to see one of her 
family ! Ah ! Mary had a great deal to 
answer for.” 

“ Why? ” said Audrey ; “ what had Mary to 
do with it?” 

“ What had Mary to do with it !” returned 
Lady Laura in an injured tone. “Why, 
everything. Until she gave up Sir Henry 
Skipwith, and disgraced herself by running 
away with the tutor, her poor mother was as 
well as I am.” 

“Nonsense, mamma; Lady Lascelles was 
not taken ill for more than two years after 
Mary’s marriage. Besides, she had rheumatic 
gout.” 

“ Excuse me, Audrey. From the time when 
that ungrateful girl left her home, Lady Las- 
celles never knew a moment’s peace of mind. 
Though the world chose to say she had 
rheumatic gout, those who loved her knew she 
died of a broken heart. Of course it was two 
years before her family noticed it. Just as it 
is with me. I might be walking into my 
grave, and until I was on the very brink of it, 
neither you nor Charles would imagine that 
I was weaker than yourselves. However, that 
does not much matter. When I am gone you 
may see differently. But I have not much 
to live for. I used to think that I should see 
my children settled and well established. I 
was foolish enough to think they would be 
pleased to see their mother *happy ; but all 
that is gone now. The one pretends that he 
cannot marry because he does not feel a 
proper amount of affection for a pretty girl 
with a handsome fortune. The other has 
not even that poor excuse; to an offer of 
every luxury and refinement that money can 
procure — a country seat, a town house, 
horses, carriages, diamonds, and carte- 
8 


blanche to spend whatever she pleases — 
her only reply is : ‘ Don’t let me see him. I 
cannot help it : I know I shall refuse him.’ 
I never knew there was madness in the 
family, but this looks exceedingly like it.” 

“ Don’t say any more, mamma,” said 
Audrey. “ All the bitter things you could 
say would not equal my own surprise. If I 
do not marry Mr. Ford, it will be because I 
cannot, not because I will not.” 

“ If you would give me some reason I 
could listen more patiently to these ravings. 
You must know the cause. Is there any one 
else you think of marrying?” 

“ No. I do not suppose any one else will 
give me the opportunity.” 

“Well!” laughed Lady Laura scornfully, 
“ I am glad to find you have so much sense 
left. I quite agree with you there. For 
the last three weeks you have looked five- 
and-thirty — your eyes are dull, not half their 
usual size, and the lines under them are worse 
than mine. Your hair has lost its gloss, and 
has just that look hair always has before 
it falls off. Begging that Mr. Ford may not 
see you, indeed ! I am not quite sure that 
you need alann yourself. There are not 
many men who would care to ask you to sit 
at the head of their table as you are looking 
at present.” Then, finding Audrey made no 
answer, she continued, “Sometimes I think 
you must have a hopeless fancy for some one, 
or have fallen in love with a mauvais sujet .” 

“ Had I done so you would certainly 
have found it out,” replied her daughter 
bitterly “ See how very soon you discovered 
that Mr. Dynecourt was dying to marry Miss 
Bingham.” 

“So he was,” said Lady Laura; “and I 
have no doubt that he will effect his purpose 
now. I saw him yesterday talking to her in 
Bond Street. He was leaning in at the 
brougham window, devouring every word she 
said. He turned to see who she bowed to, 
turned crimson, and gave me the stiffest salu- 
tation. I am sure he need not have troubled 
himself to be so distant. He may marry the 
niece, and the aunt too, for aught I care.” 

Audrey closed her desk, and walked out 
of thp room. She went slowly up-stairs, and, 
locking the door after her, sat down before 
the mirror — pale and care-worn ! Would he 
care for her now ? The tears dropped one 
by one until they fell in a thick shower. So 
soon forgotten ; his love transferred to 
another ! “ Devouring every word she said.” 

It could only be her mother’s exaggeration; 
it could not be true. But the thought rankled, 
and she found herself hating the girl who 


1 r 4 


DOROTHY FOX. 


as a prisoner bound hand and foot. 

■ Soon afterwards her mother tapped at the 
door. “I have just had a letter from your 
aunt Spencer,” she said ; “ she wants us to 
go to Beauwood on Thursday for a few 
days. The Delvins are there. She is sure 
to be offended if we refuse ; and yet I do not 
care about taking you from home just now.” 

“ Why do you not go by yourself ? My 
illness is sufficient excuse for me. Nobody 
you care about need know you have gone.” 

“ I should be back on Saturday,” said Lady 
Laura. “ But how will you get on alone ?” 

“ Oh ! 1 shall do very well. I would rather 
not go, but I think it may do you good.” 

“ Well, I really hope so,” replied her lady- 
ship, “for I require some change. So if you 
think you will not be very dull alone, I shall 
accept. She only asks me until Saturday, so 
I shall be sure to be home then.” 

CHAPTER XXVIII.— “THE EXCEPTION PROVES 
THE RULE.” 

Next morning, when the letter-bag was 
brought to Mr. Ford, he disposed of all his 
correspondence before he opened the letter 
from Lady Laura. Having carefully read it 
twice, he slowly folded it up, and said to 
himself — 

“ I believe this woman is playing me false 
in some way ; and I can’t help thinking that 
young Dynecourt is connected with it. I j 
knew something had gone wrong in that 
quarter when he left in such a hurry ; but I 
thought it was all on his side. The girl has 
been too well drilled into the idea of making 
a good match to allow her feelings to carry 
her away. Still, things don’t look clear. I 
am very fond of Audrey, and, as I must marry, 

1 would prefer her to any woman I have seen. 
There’s a great deal of good in her which that 
Lady Jezebel hasn’t been able to root out. 

I know if she married me of her own free 
will she’d try to make me happy; but I 
don’t want her to be forced into it if she 
is attached to somebody else. During the 
day I’ll think how I had best act to get at 
the truth. Before I see her I shall just call 
upon Mr. Dynecourt, casually mention her 
name, and then enter into a little conversa- 
tion about the Verschoyles. In this way 
I am likely to see if there is anything under- 
hand going on — not that I think it’s likely. 

I can trust the young folks, but not her lady- 
ship ; she’s a slippery customer, and could 
wriggle herself in or out of anything.” 

The result of these reflections was that 


to town on the 
and stay a few days, 
went first to the 
Temple, apparently on some business. Find- 
ing Geoffrey Dynecourt much occupied, he 
secured his company for dinner that evening, 
and then made some other calls. From Mrs. 
Winterton he heard that Miss Veischoyle 
seemed quite recovered. The Verschoyles 
had been in town about a fortnight, she 
thought ; and she had met them driving, but 
J they had not yet called upon her. 

When Miss Bingham came in, she could 
speak of nothing but an afternoon party her 
uncle was going to give. “It is an idea of 
mine, Mr. Ford, and you must tell me what 
I you think of it. You know, my uncle has 
an immense conservatory, which can be beau- 
| tifully lighted. I proposed that he should 
invite a number of people; engage some 
musicians, give us some tea, and alter that 
let us go about, and talk, you know. Aunt 
declares it will be a failure, but I am sure it 
won’t. The conservatory can be nicely warmed, 
and some of jthe plants removed, and others 
grouped about. I think it is charming, and 
people will be delighted to come, because they 
have nowhere to go at this time of year.” 

“ It sounds very nice,” said Mr. Ford. “ I 
am sure if you look after things it will go off 
well.” 

“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Winterton; 
“ Selina always talks a great deal beforehand. 
When once she gets there, she will sit down 
with two or three of her friends, and never so 
much as think how the rest are getting on.” 

“ Now, aunt, I am sure I shall do nothing 
of the kind. You must promise to come, Mr. 
Ford; and, oh! 1 wish Miss Verschoyle 
would come, she talks so well. You might 
persuade her.” 

“ My dear Selina,” said Mrs. Winterton, 
“ you forget that Lady Laura has not called 
upon us yet.” 

“ Oh ! but I don’t believe Miss Verschoyle 
would mind that, and Lady Laura told us she 
intended to call.” 

“I’ll tell her how much you wish it,” re- 
plied Mr. Ford, smiling at Miss Bingham’s 
unusual enthusiasm. “ I dare say I shall 
manage something. When is it to be?” 

“ This day week. I do not want the in- 
vitation to be a long one, because it is to 
appear quite an impromptu affair. My uncle 
is not married, you know, so I am sending 
out the invitations for him.” 

“ Well, then, as I am likely to see Miss 
Verschoyle to-day or to-morrow, shall I take 
her a card ?” 


could look upon his face and hear his voice, 
while she sat hungering there as helpless 


Mr. Ford determined to go 
Thursday morning, 

Arrived in London,^ he 


DOROTHY FOX. 


IJ 5 


' “ Thank you, that would be much nicer 
than sending it ; and you could explain matters 
to her.” 

Mr. Ford did not intend to call at Egmont 
Street until the next. day. He had deter- 
mined, before seeing Audrey, to have a little 
conversation with Geoffrey Dynecourt. So 
that evening, as they sat together over their 
wine, the elder gentleman introduced the 
subject in a very easy manner, although he 
saw that his companion tried to evade the 
subject and change the conversation. 

“ I shall call at Egmont Street to-morrow, 
and then I must tell Miss Verschoyle that 
you dined with me, and chatted over the 
days we all spent together,” said Mr. Ford. 

At that moment Geoffrey Dynecourt hated 
the old man. Why should Mr. Ford be his 
successful rival always ? Why should he pos- 
sess the old lands, and likewise come between 
him and the woman he worshipped ? Dyne- 
court could not command his voice to reply, 
fearing he might utter some of the bitter things 
it seemed so hard to keep back. 

“ I saw Miss Bingham to-day,” Mr. Ford 
went on, taking no notice of his guest’s silence. 
“ She is a nice girl, and I think would make 
a very nice wife. You should have tried your 
hand there.” 

“Should I?” answered Geoffrey. “Well, 
it’s not too late yet ; I have promised to go 
down to some party her uncle is giving at 
Ealing. How much money has she?” 

il What ! is that to be the charm for you, 
Dynecourt? You see I don’t expect you to 
be like most of the young men of the present 
day.” 

“ I don’t see how one can help it,” said 
Mr. Dynecourt bitterly. “ Some one says, 
‘God made the woman for the man;’ the 
world rather makes the man for the woman. 
Only fools fall in love, and they are laughed at 
by the very idols they bow down to. Money is 
the charm by which a man can win a woman’s 
heart. Perhaps Miss Bingham, having a for- 
tune, may be willing to barter it for something 
else. Dynecourt is not a bad name, although 
it is threadbare. It and the family pedigree 
might weigh a little in the scale of an heiress, 
whose blood is not of the purest blue.” 

“ Don’t talk like that, my dear fellow,” said 
Mr. Ford ; “ there are true-hearted women 
as well as true-hearted men.” 

“Are there?” he replied. “I don’t be- 
lieve it. They died out with our mothers. 
Women now teach us to have no faith in any- 
thing. If we are selfish, who is to cure us? 
If we are hardened, and worn by the world, 
who is to redeem us ? The lriends of a 


reckless man look forward to marriage as 
his salvation, his last hope ; and if women 
have no higher aims than we have, are our 
superiors in cunning, and at least our equals 
in want of heart, in greed, and in lo>e of self, 
what is there but hopeless misery for both ?” 

Mr. Ford shook his head. “ You are too 
hard,” he said ; “ you must remember, women 
are human.” 

“ Yes ; and let them be true to their 
nature, and their very faults become dear. 
If you love a woman with your whole heart, 
and she loves you in return ; and if, because of 
that divine bond, she is willing to make the 
best of you, and of herself, and of the life she 
hopes to spend with you, to others she may 
be stupid, weak, and irivolous, but she is 
the Eve of your Paradise. I believe clever 
women are a snare to lead one on to destruc- 
tion. Miss Bingham has not that drawback, 
so wish me success, sir.” 

“ Not I,” said Mr. Ford gravely, “ because 
I do not believe success would bring happi- 
ness.” 

“Happiness!” replied Mr. Dynecourt, 
laughing ; “ I blotted that word out long ago. 
But it is getting late, and Pam keeping you 
up, sir. Good night,” he said ; but he could 
not help adding, “When you repeat our tete- 
a-tete to Miss Verschoyle, do not omit the 
latter part, I feel quite safe in her knowing 
my opinion of her sex, as, of course, the 
exception proves the rule in her case.” 

CHAPTER XXIX. — BEST FOR BOTH. 

About two o’clock next day Mr. Ford 
presented himself at 2 7 a, Egmont Street,- 
and inquired for L*ady Laura Verschoyle. 
He was told that she was out of town, staying 
at Reauwood for a few days. Miss Vers- 
choyle was at home, however, — would he see 
her ? 

“Certainly,” said he, very much pleased 
that he had timed his visit sowell; and he 
was ushered into Audrey’s presence. 

“ Mr. Ford!” she exclaimed, starting up, 
“this is quite unexpected ; I had no idea you 
were in town.” 

“ Well, I am only paying a flying visit,” he 
answered ; “ and 1 was anxious to see if you 
were looking stronger.” 

“ Oh yes ! thank you. I am quite strong 
now.” Then, trying vainly to regain her usual 
composed manner, she went on nervously, 
“ Mamma isn’t at home ; she will be so 
sorry not to have seen you ; she is staying 
with my aunt, Lady Spencer. Have you 
had luncheon ?” 

“ Yes. thank you, my dear. I did not 


DOROTHY FOX. 


r 1 6 


look forward to having the pleasure of seeing 
you alone. Are you not very dull in this 
house all by yourself?” 

“ 1 ! Oh no, I rather like it ; though I am 
almost well, I am not quite strong yet, so I 
do not take kindly to gaiety.” 

Mr. Ford then asked Miss Verschoyle 
various questions about her health, and the 
benefit she had derived from the sea-air. 
While seemingly engrossed by her account of 
herself, he was noting her unusual nervous- 
ness, her heightened colour, and an evident 
struggle to be at ease. These things were 
very new to the usual self-possession and 
repose of Audrey’s manner. Alter a time she 
began to recover herself, and to direct all her 
tact and energy to keeping the conversation 
from any but. general subjects. 

Richard Ford was a keen observer. During 
his busy life he had been accustomed to watch 
men and their motives narrowly. From the 
time he began to take an interest in Audrey, 
he had gauged her and her mother with 
tolerable correctness. He formed an opinion 
not wide of the mark, when he thought, “ I 
believe for some reason that this girl does 
not want me to propose to her yet. Well ! I 
will leave that to circumstances. But as I 
may not get such another opportunity as this, 
I will sound her about Dynecourt;” so he 
said suddenly, — 

“ I have a message for you from Mr. 
Dynecourt.” 

Audrey’s blood seemed to withdraw, that 
it might rush back with greater force to her 
face and neck, and dye them crimson. To 
• meet Mr. Ford’s gaze was impossible; so she 
gave a little nervous laugh, and said, “ In- 
deed ! how odd ! ” 

“Odd!” echoed Mr. Ford; “why? I 
thought you were great friends. Are you not 
so?” 

“ Oh ! I liked Mr. Dynecourt much ; but 
one does not always keep up acquaintance- 
ships formed when visiting.” 

“No, but I thought he was going to call 
here often, and that you took a kindly interest 
in him.” 

“ But he has not called yet.” 

“ I am surprised to hear that,” answered 
Mr. Ford ; “ I shall tell him you have been 
alone, and expected him.” 

“ Oh, thank you, Mr. Ford,” said Audrey; 
adding, “ I would rather you wouldn’t say 
anything, but leave it to himself.” 

Audrey never looked up while this was 
being said ; for she lelt Mr. Ford’s eyes were 
upon her. And she was correct ; he was 
watching her narrowly. 


“ 1 am afraid,” he said, “ there has been 
some little misunderstanding between you 
that you will not tell me about. I am sorry 
for this, as I wanted your assistance about 
him. He is a great favourite of mine, and I 
fear he is going to do a very foolish thing.” 

“ YY hat is that ? ” said Audrey eagerly, for- 
getting herself in her anxiety for him. 

“ I need not say I am only telling this to 
you, Miss Verschoyle.” 

She nodded in assent. 

“ Well, then, last night, over our cigars, he 
told me that he thought of marrying.” Though 
he paused, Audrey could not say a word ; she 
seemed as if turned to stone. “ Of course, 
that is quite as it should be. The thing I 
object to is, that having apparently had some jl 
disappointment, which has made him bitter, 
he intends to propose to a certain young 
friend of ours, not because he thinks she will 
make him happy, but^ because she has a 
fortune. Many circumstances may make a 
man or woman marry for money, and as long 
as they have no other attachment I should 
not blame them. But if some other person 
possessed their heart, I should consider them 
to be acting wrongly. What is your opinion ?” 

“Why do you ask me?” replied Audrey 
coldly. 

“ For two reasons : I should much like to 
hear your ideas on the subject, knowing they 
would be mature and sound. Then, Mr. 
Dynecourt made some very bitter remarks 
about women last night, especially as to their 
want of love and faith. He said that they 
would sacrifice every feeling for money, and 
that it was the true elixir by which alone 
their hearts were touched. He afterwards 
bade me repeat his sentiments to you, saying 
that * you might safely hear them, as you had 
proved yourself an exception to the rule.’ ” 

“ Then tell him from me that it was mean ! 
and cowardly of him,” said Audrey, flashing 
up ; “I am neither better nor worse than 
most other women. I devoutly wish I were ;” 
and so saying, she rose abruptly and went to 
the window. 

“ My suspicions were correct, then,” thought 
Mr. Ford. “I believe she loves him; at 
least there is something between them that is 
hidden from me. Should I be wise in asking 
her to be my wife? I think I could trust 
her, — it may be only a passing fancy she is 
struggling to overcome. But what if it should 
be more ? — I believe I might trust her still.” 

In a minute Audrey turned round, saying, 
in her old gracious way, — “ Pray forgive my 
irritability, Mr. Ford ; a little more allowance 
is made for invalids than for other people.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


“ My dear, don’t speak of it. I do not 
want you to be vexed with our good friend 
Dynecourt, for I am sure he had no inten- 
tion of offending you. Perhaps, poor fellow, 
he is only halting between two evils. When 
I saw him, he was determined to try for an 
appointment in India, — a horrid, unhealthy 
country, and complete banishment. I sup- 
pose it is not decided yet, but I hope he’ll 
not get it.” 

“ Oh no !” said poor Audrey eagerly; “beg 
him not to try, Mr. Ford. You may ask him, 
from me, not to go there.” 

“ I think it would have much greater 
weight with him if you asked him yourself. 
I am the bearer of an invitation to you, 
similar to one which Mr. Dynecourt has 
already accepted and Mr. Ford told Audrey 
of the afternoon party, at which Miss Bingham 
was so anxious Audrey should be present. 

Audrey was strongly tempted to accept the 
invitation. Her one longing now was to 
see Geoffrey Dynecourt again. Love had 
almost proved victorious. She knew what 
her decision would be had the choice to be 
made again between love and money. She 
had argued and taken herself to task in every 
possible way. Sometimes she had fancied her 
worldly wisdom had convinced her of the 
folly of her passion. But some trivial circum- 
stance, some passing thought would bring it 
back with renewed strength. There had been 
times, too, when she felt she must write to 
Geoffrey, and ask him to come to her. She 
would tell him how she repented, how she 
suffered. But what if he had ceased to love 
her, if he hated, scorned her? No! she 
could not write. In times gone by she 
had not hesitated to show her preference 
openly, but now she could not make an 
advance, although the happiness of her life 
seemed to depend on it. But at a word or 
a sign from him, she could lay her very heart 
bare. No wonder, then, that any chance of 
a meeting seemed to her like hope revived. 

Mr. Ford saw her hesitation, and said, 
“ Your mamma, I believe, intends to call upon 
Mrs. Winterton.” 

“ I hardly know how to do, but I think I 
will write a note and say I should like very 
much to go, but as mamma is from home I 
cannot positively accept, not knowing what 
engagements she may have made. When do 
you go back ?” 

“ To-morrow ; but I shall return next week, 
when I hope to make a longer stay. I leel 
rather dull at home, now that all my friends j 
have left me.” 

“ I am sure you must ; a large house like 


lr 7 


yours always seems to need a large party in 
it,” replied Audrey. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Ford; “and yet I could 
be very happy and contented with a compa- 
nion who would let me take a great interest 
in all she did, and in return kindly take 
some interest in my favourite pursuits.” 

Audrey gave a faint smile ; they were 
nearing dangerous ground. Still she made 
no effort to change the subject, as she would 
have done at the beginning of Mr. Ford’s 
visit. The conversation regarding Geoffrey 
Dynecourt had stirred within her a host of 
conflicting feelings — bitter anger, tender .love, 
and dread of Geoffrey’s marrying or of his 
going abroad. She knew now that whenever 
Mr. Ford’s offer came she had but one answer 
that she could give to him. 

Mr. Ford greatly wished to have the matter 
settled. He knew that if Miss Verschoyie 
said “ No,” he would be disappointed. He 
did not lor a moment expect such an answer. 
He thought he would at all events broach the 
subject, and then let things driit on or not, 
according to circumstances. After a pause 
he continued, “ I am often tempted to be 
bold enough to ask some lady to marry me ; 
I think — that is, I would try to make her 
happy.” 

“ I am sure you would,” said Audrey en- 
couragingly. It was so much easier for her 
to speak now. 

“My dear Miss Verschoyie, I dare say you 
will think it very foolish of an old man like 
me not to marry somebody of my own age. 
But I am ambitious enough to wish my wife 
to be a very beautiful young lady.” 

“ Indeed,” said Audrey. 

“ Yes. Do you think it shows great want 
of sense?” asked the old gentleman, some- 
what nervously. 

“ I do not, ’ replied Audrey. “ I am sure 
many young ladies would be very pleased to 
accept you.” 

“ As young as yourself?” 

“Yes. I would rather marry you, Mr. 
Ford, than many young men I know.” 

“Then, my dear Miss Verschoyie, will you 
accept me ? for I have been bold enough to 
hope I might see you mistress of Dyne Court.”. 

Audrey waited for a moment, and then 
said, gravely, — 

“ Mr. Ford, you have done me an honour 
of which I am very unworthy. If I were to 
accept it, I should be still more unworthy of 
it. You know I value your wealth, and I 
think you know that I truly value your many 
good qualities. If I married you, I should 
wish to make you happy, and it is because I 


DOROTHY FOX. 


1 iS 


feel that I could not do it that I say — 
No.” 

Mr. Ford was silent. At length he said, 
“ Miss Verschoyle, you must not be offended 
at my asking it, but are not your feelings 
altered in some way since you left Dyne 
Court ? I think I should have had a dif- 
ferent answer there ; your mother wished me 
to consider your acceptance as certain.” 

“ I believe mamma very much wished it ; 
and at one time I greatly desired it myself. 
Even now I very much regret that it is best 
for both of us that I must decide as I do. I 
have, not dealt quite fairly with you, and I 
am sorry you feel it. I fear I shall fall in 
your estimation, and lose a friend I truly 
value.” 

“ One question more, Miss Verschoyle, 
and pray don’t think it impertinent. Are 
you going to marry any one else?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then your heart is still free ?” 

“ I think my answers have come to an 
end, Mr. Ford. I am very, very sorry I have 
misled you, but I do not refuse you in order 
to secure my happiness with another.” 

Audrey rose, as if to intimate that the in- 
terview had best terminate. The old man 
took her hand, and said, — 

“ My dear, I have no wish to pry into your 
secret ; you have acted honourably towards 
me, and in keeping with the character I 
always gave you credit for. If I could do 
anything to secure your happiness, believe 
me I would do it. I have had too many 
trials in life for disappointments to have the 
keenness and bitterness they have in youth. 
Yet this is a disappointment to me. But I 
shall strive to overcome it, so that I may 
rejoice with all my heart when I see you the 
happy wife of a worthy husband.” 

Audrey could not speak. The tears were 
falling from her eyes, but she tried to smile 
on the kindly old man, who, she felt, had 
more goodness of nature than she had before 
discovered. 

“ I shall come again,” he said, shaking 
her hand. “ Not just immediately, but 
soon ; until then, good-bye, my dear, good- 
bye.” 

And he hurried away, saying to himself as 
he went, — “ That girl has a noble nature, in 
spite of her up-bringing ! I believe now it’s 
something about Dynecourt.” After ponder- 
ing for some time, he sighed, thinking, “ Well, 
it’s all for the best, I suppose ; but oh ! if it 
had but pleased God to have spared my poor 
Patty ! It is hard at my age to be trying to 
begin life afresh, as it were 1” 


CHAPTER XXX . — (t I SHOULD HAVE TOLD 
THEE.” 

During the week the fashionable chronicle 
of the day announced that Lady Laura Vers- 
choyle and Miss Verschoyle had arrived at 
their residence, 27A, Egmont Street, and that 
Captain C. Egerton Verschoyle had taken 
his departure for the north. But it did not 
intimate that Miss Dorothy Fox had left 
Fryston Grange for Holberton Hall, Leeds. 

Still, so it was ; and on the day fixed 
Mrs. Hanbury went to the Great N orthern 
Railway Station to see Dorothy depart. 

Grace had observed with anxiety that 
there was a change in her sister. Her spirits 
had been uneven, her gaiety forced, and 
there was a nervousness in her appearance 
quite foreign to her nature. 

“ I am so sorry to leave thee, Grace,” she 
said. 

“ And I, dear, am sorry to part with 
you. We shall miss you dreadfully. You 
must write me all the north-country news. 
And, Dolly, after you have visited the Crewd- 
sons let me know what they are like ; and,” 
she whispered, laughing, “ you must tell me 
whether you intend to marry Josiah or not.” 

“ I can tell thee that now,” said Dorothy, 
with a tremor in her voice. “ I have made 
up my mind — I cannot like Josiah ” 

“ Then, my dear child, why are you going 
to Leeds?” 

But there was no time to answer, the train 
was already in motion, and in a few minutes 
it was out of sight. 

Dorothy’s words added to Grace’s per- 
plexity. “ I have been wrong,” she thought, 
“ to let her see so much of Captain Vers- 
choyle. . But it never occurred to me she 
would take any fancy to him. Perhaps he 
may have seen the impression he was pro- 
ducing, and so have hurried his departure. I 
am sure he is too honourable to take any 
advantage. But I am certainly to blame ; 
I ought to have been more careful. Poor 
little Dolly !” And all the way home, and 
during the day, Grace was anxiously thinkiug 
thus about her young sister. 

Nor was she the only person whose mind 
seemed to be filled and possessed with 
thoughts of Dorothy. 

Every day since his arrival at Darington 
Captain Verschoyle had gone into York to 
meet the train by which he expected that 
Dorothy would come, and each day he had 
been disappointed. He made up his mind 
to go once more, and then to call upon her 
aunt, and see if she had arrived without his 


DOROTHY FOX. 


seeing her. All the reflections and workings 
of Charles Verschoyle’s mind at this time 
it would be simply impossible for us to indi- 
cate. Sometimes he told himself that if he 
did not offer to marry the girl he would be 
an abominable vagabond, a blackguard who 
deserved to be kicked by every honourable 
man, and to be “ cut ” by every honest 
woman. At other times he said to himself 
that he was the greatest fool in the world. 
Who could believe that the grandson of an 
earl, and an officer in a crack regiment, would 
give up everything and everybody to marry 
the daughter of a country shopkeeper ? The 
whole thing was absurd ; and he must simply 
get out of the mess in the best way he could. 
When Dorothy did not arrive he worked him- I 
self into a fever, and finally made up his mind 
to call upon Miss Abigail Fletcher, who, to ! 
his surprise, was from home — “staying at 
Malton.” The maid told him that she thought 
she had heard something about Miss Dorothy 
being expected. Jane would be sure to know ; 
only Jane had a holiday, and wouldn't be 
back until Monday. So until Monday Captain 
Verschoyle had to wait, chafing in fear that 
something had happened which would pre- 
vent him from seeing Dorothy again. 

To Josiah Crewdson, Dorothy’s visit was 
an event such as had never before occurred 
in his lifetime. As he stood waiting for the 
train he felt quite sick and faint from excite- 
ment, oppressed with a nervous dread that 
something unforeseen had detained her. But 
in another minute Dorothy arrived, and soon 
Josiah was wildly dashing against passengers 
and porters in order to possess himself of 
her luggage. After the first greetings were 
over, Dorothy was silent. Oppressed by the 
feeling that she had nothing to say, she ex- 
cused herself on the plea of being tired, and 
Josiah, in his delight at seeing her, readily 
forgave her taciturnity. 

Holberton Hall was a heavy-looking, square, 
stone-built house. Josiah thought it had 
never before presented so dull and gloomy 
an appearance, and he remarked, apologeti- 
cally, — 

“ My sisters don’t care for flowers, but the 
place might be made much more cheerful- 
looking. There is no occasion for my living 
here at all. We might get another house if — 
thou liked, Dorothy.” 

Dorothy looked in the opposite direction, 
“from coyness,” as Josiah thought, but in 
reality to prevent him from seeing the tears 
with which her eyes were filled. Her decep- 
tion seemed to come before her in all its 
force, and she felt that she should be miser- 


"9 


able until she had told Josiah the real state 
of her mind. 

The Miss Crewdsons came out to meet 
Dorothy, and delivered themselves of a set 
speech of formal greeting. They seemed to 
regard her engagement as a settled business ; 
so that Dorothy felt herself to be an impostor, 
felt as if she had come into the family upon 
false pretences. Oh, how many times before 
the dreary evening came to an end did she 
wish that she had gone direct from Fryston to 
her own home ! 

Josiah did all he could to amuse her, 
making, as Jemima afterwards said, a “com- 
plete mountebank of himself.” But it was 
all to no purpose. The gloomy house and 
the sombre room oppressed the girl ; and the 
two stern, hard-featured women made her shy 
and timid. More than all, the consciousness 
that she was acting deceitfully filled her with 
misery. She rejoiced, therefore, when it was 
time to retire to her own room, although only 
for the satisfaction of indulging her grief, and 
sobbing herself to sleep. 

Dorothy’s chief perplexity was about the 
Miss Crewdsons. She felt she had the 
courage to kill Josiah’s hopes and crush his 
dearest wish ; but how could she face Jemima 
and Kezia, after they knew that she did not 
intend to marry -their brother? Yet what 
was to be done ? She could not stay a week 
there deceiving everybody. No, it would be 
better to have it over as soon as possible, 
and then go to Aunt Abigail’s at York. 
There she had fixed her longing hope of 
meeting Charles Verschoyle once more — only 
once. Dorothy was too young and unworldly 
to have any doubt of the man who knew that 
he had her heart in his keeping. If it were 
not for those dreadful sisters she would tell 
Josiah the very next day. But how would 
they take it? what might they not do to her? 

It was a pity that Dorothy could not have 
overheard the opinions which at that very 
time the sisters were exchanging with each 
other on their brother’s choice. Her ap- 
pearance they regarded with pious horror. 
She was a child, a baby-faced doll ; and they 
charitably inferred that if she had any sense, 
she took care that nobody should give her 
credit for it. They quoted the Proverbs of 
Solomon so freely concerning her, that had 
any one overheard them he would have felt 
dubious as to Dorothy’s moral character. 
Finally, they agreed in declaring that they 
would not leave a stone unturned to prevent 
the entrance into the Crewdson family of such 
a lackadaisical creature. 

Next day, when Josiah had left, Jemima 


DOROTHY FOX. 


began to speak about Dorothy’s dress. She 
said that they were surprised to find that 
Dorothy had departed from that plainness 
of apparel which it so much became Friends 
to adhere to. Surely her parents could not 
approve of it. When Dorothy said she had 
her parents’ sanction, both the sisters elevated 
their eyebrows with an air of incredulity and 
astonishment. With no little emphasis, they 
said that such vanity would not be permitted 


in their brother’s wife. She must be com 
sistent, and wear a cap and bonnet suited to 
women whose aims were higher than the 
adornment of a miserable body which worms 
would soon destroy. 

Dorothy was silent. Only in this way 
could she keep down the tears which threat- 
ened to come in a torrent. At another 
time her spirit would have been roused, and 
she would have done battle bravely with the 



IIS> 


Miss Crewdsons for presuming to lecture 
her for doing what she had her parents’ 
authority to do. But “ conscience makes 
cowards of us all,” and Dorothy knew that 
she was acting wrongly. She felt she should 
never have placed herself in this position. 
She could not defend herself without speaking 
of a decision which, until Josiah knew it, she 
had no right to mention to any of his family. 


Josiah was to return at five, and Dorothy 
thought that hour would never come. About 
three the sisters proposed to take her with 
them to visit the sick and poor. They said 
it was their day for ministering to the wants 
of their district. Dorothy, however, plucked 
up courage to refuse. This gave rise to 
many remarks on her want of charity and 
slothiulness. But the clock warned them that 



DOROTHY FOX. 


121 


unless they went off speedily they could not 
return by the time Josiah would be home, and 
they left her. She was not long by herself, 
for the thought of Dorothy being at home to 
welcome him had given such impetus to 
Josiah’s usually slow and methodical move- 
ments, that his business was over by three 
o’clock. Before another hour had elapsed 
he was in his own dining-room, anxiously 
inquiring of Dorothy the cause of her tearful 
eyes and weary looks. 

“ Indeed, it is nothing,” she answered, 
with quivering mouth; for even his tender- 
ness touched her now. For a moment there 
was silence, then with a sudden effort she 
said — 

“Josiah, I want to speak to thee very 
seriously. If we may be disturbed here, 
take me somewhere else.” 

A sickly fear crept over Josiah. “She 
does not like Jemima and Kezia,” he thought 
to himself, “ and she is going to tell me that 
she cannot marry me.” 

“ Come into the garden, Dorothy ; there is 
a summer-house there nobody ever goes to.” 
On the way he said to her, “You mustn’t mind 
sisters ; they have not ways like thine. But 
then thou needst not see them often, and I 
would take care they should never worry 
thee.” 

Dorothy did not answer. 

“ It would be quite different,” he continued. 
“ Here they are the mistresses, and they feel 
as if everything belonged to them. But when 
they only came as visitors it wouldn’t be so, 
or if they were cross and cranky thou needst 
not mind them. Oh ! Dorothy, don’t let them 
make any difference about me.” 

Still she did not say a word until they 
reached the square formal summer-house, 
with the bench along its sides, and the round 
table in the middle. When they were seated, 
she said, — 

“ J osiah, I am going to tell thee something 
which will make thee think very poorly of 
me.” 

“ No, Dorothy,” said Josiah, with a shake 
of his head, “ nothing can make me think 
poorly of thee.” 

“Thou knowest,” she continued, “that I 
like thee very much indeed. From the first 
time I saw thee I thought thee very good 
and kind, but I ” and here she paused. 

“ Do not love me,” he said, finishing the 
sentence. “I know that. I don’t expect 
it to come all at once. Sometimes I fear 
that thou wilt find it impossible, I am so 
awkward and stupid; but, Dorothy, thou 
said thou wouldst try.” 


“ Yes, I did ; but, Josiah,” — and she leaned 
her arms on the table that she might cover 
her face with her hands, — “ I cannot even try 
now.” 

There was silence for several minutes, 
and then Josiah said in a husky voice, “ I 
ought to have known it. An uncouth fellow, 
not able even to tell thee what I feel — what 
else could I expect from thee ?” 

“ This thou might have expected,” said 
Dorothy, looking at him fixedly, “ that having 
given thee and my father my word that I 
would try, I should have avoided all tempta- 
tion that might lead me to break that word. 
When I felt that I could never do as thou 
wished, I should have told thee, and not 
acted deceitfully by coming here among thee 
and thy relations.” 

“ Are sisters making thee decide thus ? 
Thou hadst not made up thy mind before 
thou came her? ?” 

“ Yes, I had.” 

Josiah’s face seemed to become suddenly 
sharp and old. Taking hold of her arm in 
his newly-awakened fear, he said, “ Dorothy ! 
— Dorothy! it isn’t somebody else?” 

She gave him no answer. 

“ Oh ! ” he groaned, resting his face upon 
the table, “ I didn’t think of that, — I didn’t 
think of that.” 

“Josiah, don’t give way like that,” exclaimed 
Dorothy, surprised and alarmed at the sight 
of his misery. “ Oh ! what shall I do ? ” she 
continued, as her tears fell thick and fast 
upon his hands. 

Josiah immediately tried to recover himself. 
“ I shall be all right in a minute,” he said. 
“ Thou must not mind me — only it came on 
me so sudden.” 

“Josiah, if I could only tell thee how 
sorry I am to grieve thee ! I — I thought it 
would disappoint thee, but I did not know it 
would pain thee like this.” 

“Didst thou not?” he said, trying to 
smile. “ Ah ! I have been a sad bungler, 
Dorothy. My love for thee made me dumb 
when I most wanted to speak to thee. Does 
thy father know of this ?” 

“Father! Oh no!” 

“ But thou wilt tell him soon ?” 

Dorothy looked down as she answered 
slowly, — “ I do not think I shall. I — I — do 
— not intend to marry anybody else.” 

“ Not — marry — any one — else,” repeated 
Josiah in amazement. “Then have I misun- 
derstood thee? Thou wouldst not willingly 
give me pain, I know, — but, please— Dorothy 
— tell me the truth at once. Dost thou love 
some one, not only better than me — but so 


122 


DOROTHY FOX. 


well as to prevent thee from ever becoming 
my wife ?” 

Dorothy hesitated, but seeing his anxious 
face, she answered, — “Yes ; but, Josiah, oh ! 
do listen. It is some one whom my principles 
forbid me to marry. I may never see him 
again, and if I do, I shall part with him for 
ever and at the thought Dorothy’s firmness 
gave way, and she sobbed aloud. 

Josiah did not ask the name of his rival, 
but he rightly guessed who he was. For- 
getting his own troubles, however, he now 
tried to soothe and comfort Dorothy. Think- 
ing that she would feel more happy away from 
his family, he suggested, and she agreed, that 
it would be better for her to go to Aunt 
Abigail as soon as she could. Not the next 
day perhaps, because Aunt Abigail was still at 
Malton, but the day after. Her aunt would 


then be at home, and aware of her movements. 
Jemima and Kezia were to be told nothing 
until after Dorothy’s departure, so that they 
might not teaze and worry her with their 
cutting remarks. 

It was now considerably past five o’clock, 
and they prepared to return to the house. 

“Josiah, say that thou forgivest me,” said 
Dorothy. 

“ With all my heart.” 

“ And that thou wilt try to forget me ?” 

“ Never, — I shall always love thee, Doro- 
thy. Thou wouldst not wish to deprive me 
of that comfort?” 

“ No,” said Dorothy; and she felt, for the 
first time, that if she had never seen Charles 
Verschoyle, it would not have been quite 
impossible for her to have cared for Josiah 
Crewdson. 



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DOROTHY FOX. 


125 


IP.AJR, T X. 


CHAPTEP XXXT. — KEZIA PLAYS THE SPY. 

OTWITH- 

STAN DING 

all that Do- 
rothy had 
said to Jo- 
siah at their 
recent inter- 
view, he felt 
it impossi- 
ble for him 
to abandon 
all hope. 
Might she 
not yet over- 
come this 
fancy which 
was never 
to be grati- 
fied, and 
then after a 
time get to 
like him ? She had been so kind and gentle 
to him since their meeting in the summer- 
house, that such a supposition did not seem 
to be entirely chimerical. 

Aunt Abigail had written to say that she 
would expect her niece on the day men- 
tioned, and the day had now arrived. Josiah, 
to save Dorothy annoyance, had offered to 
tell his sisters that she wanted to return 
home sooner than she had at first intended, 
and wishing to spend as much time as possible 
with her aunt, she thought it best to shorten 
her visit to them. 

“ Oh, certainly, by all means,” said Jemima; 
“ as she did not come here on our account, 
we have no wish to detain her : although it is 
paying thee a very poor compliment, Josiah.” 

“ It's quite what I expected,” said Kezia, 
with the smile of infallible intuition. “ Ours 
is no house for the frivolous and worldly ; it is 
a pity that Dorothy came here at all.” 

“ It is a. great pity,” replied Josiah, feeling 
himself getting more angry than he cared to 
show them. “Thou and Jemima seem to 
forget how young Dorothy is. As to her 
being frivolous and worldly, she is nothing of 
the kind ; she is cheerful and gay, as a girl 
should be. When she is as old as either of 
you she will be sedate enough.” 

Now, few women can bear to be told they 
are old in comparison with other women 
whom they know to be young. They may 
own their age, even boast of it, but they 


never care about being reminded of it by 
other people. Therefore, though the Miss 
Crewdsons were quite innocent of trying to 
make themselves more juvenile than they 
really were, Josiah could not have cut his 
sisters more surely, or raised their indignation 
more speedily than he did by this taunt, 
which was all the worse to bear as each of 
them would have died before she would have 
acknowledged her annoyance. 

“The train leaves at 2.40,” added Josiah, 
“and I will meet Dorothy at the station. I must 
see Stephenson this morning, so I shall walk 
into Leeds, and Dorothy can have the car- 
riage.” 

“ Certainly,” returned Jemima : “hast thou 
any further orders to leave ? for I suppose it 
has come to thy considering it to be our 
place to obey thee.” 

“ Nonsense, Jemima, don’t take such 
fancies,” said Josiah, fearing that unless he 
tried to mollify them a little, his sisters might 
vent their vexation on Dorothy. “She cannot 
walk, and I thought it would save a cab.” 

Waiting for no further argument, Josiah 
went out through the back way into the 
garden, at the end of which, according to 
appointment, he met Dorothy. 

“ Hast thou told them ? What did they 
say?” she asked excitedly. 

“Nothing; but I see they are a little 
vexed; so if they speak somewhat sharply, 
thou must not mind it. They do not mean ill.” 

“ Thou only saidst that I was going ? ” said 
Dorothy timidly. 

“Yes, that was all. Need I say more at 
present, Dorothy? Perhaps some day thou 
mayest get to like me a little ; that is, if thou 
art sure that thou dost not intend marrying 
— the — the other one,” he blurted out. 

Dorothy shook her head : “ I will not 
deceive thee again; and thou wouldst not 
wish to marry me if I had no love for thee, 
Josiah?” 

“ No : only sometimes, after many years 
perhaps, when people don’t meet they forget 
their love.” 

“ But not what love is like,” she said sadly. 

“ Dorothy, forgive me — only one more 
question. Art thou quite sure thou hast no 
intention to marry him ?” 

“ Quite sure.” 

“ And dost thou think thy strength is suffi- 
cient for thee to say No?” 

“ I think strength will be given to me,” 



126 


DOROTHY FOX. 


she answered ; “ for I am trying very hard 
to do my duty.” 

Josiah took her hand in both of his, and 
looking at her — his honest, every-day face lit 
up by love - he said, “ God bless and help 
thee, Doro'div ! ” and Dorothy’s voice failing, 
she tightened her grasp, and tried to smile 
on him through her tears. 

Twelve o’clock had struck, and still the 
Miss Crewdsons sat puzzling over and specu- 
lating about the cause of this sudden depar- 
ture. They were certain that there was 
something more in it than met the eye ; but 
what that something could be they failed to 
discover. Dorothy had been in and out 
several times during the morning, but meeting 
with no other response to her remarks than 
“ yes ” or “ no,” she had betaken herself to 
her own room, where she was sitting lonely 
and dispirited. 

For the twentieth time had Kezia asked 
Jemima, “What can it be?” — for the twentieth 
time she had received from her sister the an- 
swer, that time would show,, when a loud peal 
at the bell startled them both. Before they 
had run through their category of probable 
visitors, the maid opened the door, walked 
up to J emima, and put a card into her hand, 
saying, “ He’s asked for Dorothy Fox, and 
please, lie’s waiting.” Jemima looked at the 
card and read aloud, “Captain Charles Eger- 
ton Vcrschoyle, 17th Lancers.” 

Jemima Crewdson boasted that she was 
“never taken aback.” Seldom had she had 
greater reason to pride herself on this than 
when, without any exclamation or comment, 
she said, “ Take this to her, and tell her that 
he is waiting to see her.” 

The girl took the card to Dorothy, who 
breathlessly demanded where the visitor was, 
and whether any one was with him ? Con- 
cluding from Dorothy’s excitement that the 
good-looking young man was her real sweet- 
heart, and not being devoted to the house of 
Crewdson, the servant smiled grimly as she 
descended the stairs, saying, “ And 1 for one 
shouldn’t be sorry neither.” 

Flow Dorothy managed to fly down-stairs, 
pass the dining-room door, and get into the 
room where Charles Verschoyle stood wait- 
ing for her, she did not know ; it seemed to 
her as if one minute she were reading his 
name, and the next that she was sobbing 
sweet and bitter tears in his arms. The joy 
she felt at seeing the man whom she now 
knew to be far dearer to her than she had 
hitherto dreamt of, the conflicts she had gone 
through for his sake, and the misery she had 
endured for the last few weeks, broke down 


all her firm resolutions, and drove from her 
mind everything but the glad thought that 
“he” was with her, and nothing now could 
harm her. 

Captain Verschoyle was at a loss to under- 
stand the meaning of this outburst. He only 
saw that something had gone wrong and dis- 
tressed “ his darling,” as he now called her, 
and that the sight of her tears made him feel 
more pitiful and tender than the griefs of all 
the women he had ever known before. He 
soothed and caressed her, and called her 
every endearing name which falls so sweetly 
from the mouth of a lover, until Dorothy’s 
tears ceased falling, and she began to awaken 
to the realities of her position. 

“ How didst thou know that I was here?” 
she asked. “ T ney will be so angry. Oh ! 
thou oughtst not to have come.” 

“ Why not ? and who are they who will be 
angry?” he said. “Are these people your 
relations ?” 

“ No.” 

“Well, then, there can be nothing so very 
extraordinary in my calling to see you. Say 
I am a friend of your sister’s, and wanted to 
know if you had any message to send to her ; 
that I went to your aunt’s, and not finding 
you I came here. No one could be angry 
about that.” 

“ But thou art a soldier,” said Dorothy, 
shaking her head in dissent to his arguments. 

“ Suppose I am, I am not going to fight 
them ; but tell me, dear, why were you so 
distressed at seeing me?” 

“Because I have been so miserable of late.” 

Feeling that he was probably the cause of 
her misery, Captain Verschoyle should have 
looked less pleased, as he put his arm again 
round her and tried to draw her towards him. 
But Dorothy had recovered herself, so she 
turned from him and sat down in a chair, 
while he stood looking at her. “ I have been 
so unhappy,” she continued, “ because I ought 
never to have spoken as I did to thee in the 
garden.” 

“ Why not ?” he exclaimed hurriedly. 
“ Was it not true ? Dorothy, tell me, do you 
love me?” He was kneeling by her side, 
with his face close to hers, so that she looked 
into his eyes with her own full of truth and 
love. 

“ Yes,” she said slowly, “ I love thee with 
all my heart ; but I ought never to have 
showm it to thee.” 

“ And why?” 

“ Because I knew it was wnong. When 
I began to think so much of thee, I ought to 
have gone home.” 


/ 


TO DOROTHY’S UNSPEAKABLE HORROR, THE FIGURE WHICH TURNED AWAY WAS KEZIA CREWDSON. 


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DOROTHY FOX. 


1 29 


“ Oh ! don’t say that, darling.” 

Matters were beginning to look a little 
brighter now, and Captain Verschoyle almost 
smiled as he remembered the sharp pain he 
felt when he thought Dorothy was going to 
say she did not care for him. 

“ But it is true,” she continued : “ all this 
time I have been disobeying father, and de- 
ceiving Josiah Crewdson.” 

“Josiah Crewdson! What has he to do 
with it?” 

Dorothy looked down abashed. “ Josiah 
wanted me to marry him, and I promised 
father I would try to like him, and I told 
Josiah the same, and now ” 

“ Well!” 

“ Of course, I cannot.” 

Captain Verschoyle was silent ; not because 
he did not love the girl, but he was suspi- 
cious, — and not without cause, for the world 
had taught him two or three rather bitter 
lessons. Was she trying to entangle him into 
making her an offer of marriage ? Perhaps 
her sister had prompted her to do it. Well, 
if she had told the Hanburys there was no 
backing out of it, and, after all, he should 
have to marry a shop-keeper’s daughter. So 
he said, very coldly, “ Why ? Is it your inten- 
tion to marry some one else ?” 

Dorothy looked up ; his voice grated upon 
her ear, but in a moment she dismissed the 
suspicion. Her love told her — knowing as 
she did that they could not marry — what his 
pain must be. Her heart seemed to give a 
great surge, and, laying her head on his 
shoulder, she hid her face and cried, “ Oh ! 
Charles, if thou hadst been the poorest man 
in all the world I would never have ceased 
to entreat father ; but I know if I disobeyed 
him and forsook my principles, we could 
expect no blessing and no happiness.” 

“What do you mean, child?” exclaimed 
Captain Verschoyle, puzzled by Dorothy’s 
words, certain of her love however, and at 
rest regarding her duplicity. “ You say you 
will not marry this Crewdson, but surely if I 
ask your father for you, you will marry me?” 

“ No. Thou art a soldier, and for that 
reason father would never give his consent. 
It would be against our principles, and 
though I feel that were I called upon I could 
willingly die for thee, I could not disobey my 
parents when I know they are acting rightly.” 

“ Such love as this is not worth having,” 
he said, pushing her from him. “ I am 
offering for your sake” — and he thought 
he was speaking the truth — “ to give up my 
friends, position, and all hope of advance- 
ment in life ; and you tell me that you love 
9 


me very much, but if your father says ‘ No/ 
you could not think of disobeying him. Do 
you suppose that I expect my mother ever to 
give her consent ? Very likely neither she 
nor my sister would ever speak to me again. 
But if I had determined to marry you I would 
not be deterred though every relation I have 
turned their backs upon me.” 

“ But I feel that God’s face would be 
turned from me.” 

Captain Verschoyle gave an impatient 
shrug. “ I know nothing of such bigotry,” he 
said contemptuously. “ If you think me 
such a Pariah, why did you lead me to sup- 
pose that you cared for me ? ” 

Dorothy sat with her face in her hands 
rocking herself to and fro in hopeless misery 
— such a picture of heart-broken despair, that 
all Charles Verschoyle’s anger gave way, and 
kneeling down before her he said, — “Dorothy, 
my own, my darling, don’t listen to me. I 
am a brute to say such things, but I did 
not know how I loved you ; look at me, 
dear, I’ll give up everything in the world 
for you. I’ll sell out, and we’ll go and live 
in the country. That’s right, smile at me 
again, dearest. I’ll turn Quaker, and then 
my Dolly won’t say No. Will she?” 

But Dorothy had no power then to reply, 
and when she had, Captain Verschoyle 
jumped up suddenly, exclaiming, “ Confound 
that woman ! ” and walking to the window 
called out, “ Do you wish to come in this 
way, madam?” 

To Dorothy’s unspeakable horror, the 
figure which turned away was Kezia Crewdson. 

CHAPTER XXXII. LOVING AND LOSING. 

When young Love has been suddenly put 
to flight, he is very shy of settling down again. 
Therefore, although it was nearly half an 
hour before Captain Verschoyle left Hol- 
berton Hall, the interval was taken up by a 
comparatively sober and business-like con- 
versation. 

Dorothy was in a great state of trepidation 
about Kezia Crewdson. Captain Verschoyle 
declared, however, that she could not have 
been at the window two minutes before he 
saw her, although, had she stood for two 
hours, he said, she could not have seen them. 
He said this, not really believing it, being 
certain that Miss Crewdson’s curiosity had 
been gratified by a very romantic tableau. 
But then, it was not likely she would say 
anything about it, as that would be telling 
upon herself. However, the thing was done, 
and they must make the best of it, and carry 
it off as circumstances demanded. 


I 3° 


DOROTHY FOX. 


He was delighted to hear that Dorothy 
was leaving for York ; and began to speculate 
if they could not travel in the same carriage. 

“Josiah is going with me to the station, 
and Aunt Abigail will meet me at York,” 
said Dorothy. 

“ Oh, that is just the thing. I want to be 
introduced to your aunt, so that I can call 
and see you. You want to see me again 
soon, Dorothy, do you not ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, then, we shall meet at the station. 
I shall look out for you. 2.40 you said? 
All right, and don’t fidget about that old 
Tabbyskins, dear ; whatever she accuses you 
of, deny it.” 

“ Oh, Charles ! but I could not.” 

“ Oh, Dolly ! yes, you could,” he whispered, 
laughing at her grave face. Then giving her 
a most courteous bow in case they should 
be watched, he walked away, and Dorothy 
shut the door, her heart sinking with every 
retreating step he took. 

Try as she would, she could not persuade 
herself that Kezia had not seen them. If 
she had — all Dorothy’s senses seemed to for- 
sake her at the thought. What might she 
not do ? Write to her father perhaps ; and 
then — she should die of shame. While she 
was striving to convince herself that they 
had been unseen, Ann came to announce 
that luncheon was ready. Dorothy, un- 
able to look at any one, and feeling it 
required all her resolution to keep her 
teeth from chattering, found herself in the 
dining-room before the sisters, who, by 
practising the feminine habit of ignoring an 
offender, and finding an immense deal to 
say to each other, gave Dorothy time to re- 
cover herself. She felt it was needful for her 
to say something about a visit to her in a 
house where they were mistresses and she 
was a guest. So, when she was able to 
command her voice sufficiently, she took an 
opportunity of saying, “ It was Charles Ver- 
schoyle who came here this morning ; mother 
knows him, and he is a friend of Grace’s.” 

“So I should think,” replied Jemima, but 
without more sharpness in her voice than 
usual. 

“ He had been to Aunt Abigail’s, and they 
told him I was here,” Dorothy went on to 
say. “ He is going back to London soon, and 
will tell Grace he has seen me.” 

“ It was very fortunate that thou hadst not 
gone,” said Kezia, “ but perhaps he knew the 
hour when thou wert going. I suppose thou 
expected him?” 

“ No, I did not,” and Dorothy found 


courage to look up and meet Kezia’s eyes. 
They looked at her as they usually did ; 
there was no terrible light in them as if they 
had witnessed an awful secret, which would 
soon be communicated to all whom it might 
and might not concern. Indeed, Kezia was 
particularly gracious in pressing her to eat 
more, fearing that she had lost her appetite, 
and reminding her that she had a journey 
before her. So Dorothy drew breath, and 
began to think that Charles Verschoyle was 
right, and that Kezia had seen nothing. So 
great a calamity being averted, caused her 
spirits to rise at once, and she left Holberton 
Hall smiling and gracious, and thanking the 
sisters for the kindness they had shown to her. 

Josiah was at the station waiting for 
her, smiling that she might see no trace of 
his flagging spirits and heavy heart. They 
were in good time, but Josiah was restless, 
and kept going backward and forward to see 
if the luggage was labelled, or if the ticket 
office was open. Dorothy wished he would 
sit quiet for a few minutes, as she wanted to 
tell him that Charles Verschoyle had been 
to see her. But whenever she was about to 
begin, Josiah started off ; and now, unless 
she made haste, she feared the subject of 
her communication would arrive before she 
could announce his advent. 

When Josiah sat down again, Dorothy said, 
quickly, “ I had a visitor this morning ; 
Charles Verschoyle came to sec me.” 

Josiah only grasped his umbrella tighter, 
and answered, — “ Oh ! did he?” 

Then there was a pause until he was suffi- 
ciently calm to ask, “Are you going to see 
him again?” 

“Yes, he said he was going to York by 
this train, and he would see me at the station.” 

Here Josiah jumped up in a great hurry, 
saying he was quite sure the ticket office 
must be open by this time ; and without 
another word he went off. When he returned, 
some five or six minutes later, he found that 
Captain Verschoyle had joined Dorothy, and 
was carrying on a most animated conversation 
with her. 

The captain condescended to remember 
that he had met Mr. Crewdson before, 
and to bestow on him a formal shake of 
the hand. He then announced that, think- 
ing Miss Fox might have some parcel or 
message for Mrs. Hanbury, he had taken the 
liberty of calling upon her at Holberton 
Hall. To which Josiah replied, “Thank thee.” 
Why he should be thankful he did not know 
however, for never had he felt greater ani- 
mosity towards any one than towards this 


DOROTHY FOX. 


3i 


man, whose soldier-like appearance, hand- 
some face, and easy manner, made him feel 
hi own defects a hundred-fold more keenly 
than ever. 

“ 1 think we may as well take # our seats, 
Miss Fox,” said Captain Verschoyle, reliev- 
ing Dorothy of her cloak and travelling-bag. 
Josiah, thus excluded, walked after them up 
the platform, watched Captain Verschoyle 
make all the arrangements for Dorothy’s com- 
fort, and then stood uncomfortable and ill at 
ease at the carriage door. Here he was rather 
unceremoniously pushed aside by an old 
gentleman, who jumped in in a great hurry, 
and, regardless of the cloak and umbrellas 
ostentatiously spread out to guard it, took 
the seat opposite Dorothy, shut the door, 
and then looked out of the window, and said, 
“Ah! how d’ye do, Crewdson? This young 
lady a friend of yours? Going to York ? Very 
wrong to send her alone — might meet some 
impertinent fellow on the way. 1 11 take care 
of her. Introduce me.” 

Josiah, taken aback by this unusual fami- 
liarity in a bowing acquaintance, stammered 
out, “Thou art very good. Dorothy Fox — ” 

“ Oh !” said the old gentleman, interrupt- 
ing him. Then taking off his hat. he repeated, 
“ Dorothy Fox, and my name, for our journey 
entirely at your service, is Harry Egerton. 
Now, Miss Fox, society permits us after this 
to he as polite or as rude as we please to each 
other.” 

“ I hope I shall not be rude, and I do not 
think that such is thy intention,” said Dorothy, 
laughing. 

“ You are ignoring me altogether, sir,” said 
Captain Verschoyle, touching him on the arm. 

“No, I am not,” answered the old man 
gruffly, turning round ; “ but I’ve seen you 
before this morning ; I came up in the same 
train with you.” Though he intended to be 
very severe, at the sight of the expression on 
his godson’s face Mr. Egerton could not 
refrain from winking his eye. 

“ Thou wilt let us know of thy safe arrival, 
Dorothy? and perhaps while thou art at thy 
aunt’s I shall be at York on business, and 
come and see thee,” said Josiah. 

“ Oh ! yes do,” said Dorothy. Then seeing 
a frown on Captain Verschoyle’s face, she 
added, “ that is, if I am there ; but I shall 
not stay long. Farewell, Josiah! Do be 
careful ; don’t stand on the step— the train 
is moving, thou might be thrown down.” 

As the train went off, Josiah, in the bitterness 
of his heart, wished he had been thrown down, 
and that it had gone over him. In spite of 
what he told Dorothy about being glad they 


had met even if she could never care for 
him, he asked himself now why he had ever 
seen her, if seeing her was only to make him 
hopeless and wretched. Had his father only 
brought him up differently — taught him to 
say what he thought like other men — made 
him feel certain that the thing he was doing 
was the right thing to do, matters might 
have been different. But what chance had 
he with a man like Charles Verschoyle? 
None. Telling his clerks that he was par- 
ticularly engaged and could see no one, Josiah 
went into his office, flung himself down upon 
his chair, and declared to himself that he 
did not care what became of him. 

In the meantime his sisters were anxiously 
awaiting his return, full of the importance of 
the awful disclosure which Kezia had to 
make. She had no intention of prefacing 
her revelation with — “ Happening to be pass- 
ing the window,” or, “ Not having an idea 
that any one was in the room.” No, Miss 
Crewdson gave her unvarnished testimony to 
the truth. Considering it -was her duty to 
know what her brothers future wife could 
have to do with a man belonging to a pro- 
fession abominable in the sight of a peace- 
loving community, she had walked into the 
garden, and stood at the window of the room, 
looking at them until she had attracted their 
attention. If what had passed before her 
eyes did not stagger Josiah and make the 
scales which blinded him fall from his eyes, 
the sisters considered it would be their duty 
to lay the matter before the Society. And” 
here they were only acting according to what 
their consciences dictated. No malice or 
dislike to Dorothy in any way impelled them. 
For had she been entirely “after their own 
hearts,” the last few hours would have lowered 
her so much in their estimation as to make 
them think her unworthy to be the wile of 
any man bearing an honest name. 

Josiah at length arrived, hot and breath- 
less, having walked very quickly, to prevent 
his being more than half-an-hour late for 
dinner. He expected to be met with black 
looks and angry faces, instead of which, Kezia 
only remarked that he looked very warm, and 
Jemima reproached him mildly for hurrying 
when there was no occasion to do so. 

Had Josiah been quick-witted and sharp, 
he would have been certain that something 
was about to happen. The sisters had agreed 
that he should have his dinner in peace ; 
and during the meal they made themselves 
so unusually pleasant and agreeable, that even 
Josiah wondered what could be the reason of 
this sudden change. “I daresay,” thought 


132 


DOROTHY FOX. 


he, “ they want to show me how glad they are 
that she is gone ;” and he heaved a sigh so 
deep that Jemima remarked, “One would 
think that thy mind was ill at ease, Josiah.” 

Josiah denied the assertion most emphatic- 
ally ; whereupon Kezia exclaimed mournfully, 
that she wished his sisters could say the 
same ; but it was best to prepare himself, 
for they had a blow in store for him, a 
blow dealt him by a human hand, and a 
hand too that they had once thought to see 
joined with his own. Josiah 
what obtuse as to metaphorical 
not grasp ICezia’s meaning, and sat silently 
staring first at one and then at the other, 
hoping to get some explanation. Jemima, 
who was in all her dealings essentially prac- 
tical, said, — 

“Kezia, Josiah doth not understand thee; 
thou hadst best be plain with him, and in as 
few words as possible tell him what thou hast 
discovered/’ 

So urged, Kezia commenced, and soon the 
plain truth was made known to Josiah, who 
listened with an unmoved countenance. 

“ Thou art quite positive that thou saw all 
this? Thou fancied nothing?” he said. 

Kezia allowed this imputation on her 
veracity to pass unnoticed. She merely re- 
stated that she stood looking in at the window 
until the man walked up to her and asked 
if she wanted to come in. 

“ And did Dorothy know that it was thou ?” 

“ Certainly she did.” 

“ And she made no remark upon it after- 
wards ? ” 

“ No.” 

Josiah relapsed into silence until Jemima 
could bear it no longer ; so she said rather 
sharply, “Thou art taking it very coolly, 
Josiah.” 

“ Am I ? What am I to do ?” 

“ What art thou to do?” she echoed; “ I 
think if I were a man I should not require to 
be told what 1 should do, when the woman 
engaged to be my wife had been seen — in 
the arms of another,” and Miss Crewdson felt 
as if her maidenly estate had been offended 
by naming such a situation. 

“Perhaps not,” said Josiah slowly, “but 
Dorothy Fox is not, and never was, engaged 
to be my wife. I have nothing, therefore, to 
say about it, and, of course, neither of you 
will ever speak of it to any one.” 

“Dear Josiah !” exclaimed both the Miss 
Crewdsons in a breath, “ thou hast taken a 
load off our minds.” 

“ I always thought,” said Kezia, “ that our 
brother had more sense than to marry 


being \ some- 
allusions; did 


Dorothy Fox. She is a bad, forward girl, 
Josiah, and mark my words ” 

But at the moment it seemed much more 
likely that he would mark her body, for jump- 
ing up suddenly he exclaimed, “ Hold thy 
tongue, she is nothing of the sort ; though she 
will not marry me, I love her better than 
anybody in the world, and I won’t let any one 
speak against her.” 

Now, how is it that men will make such* 
fatal blunders? In one moment Josiah had 
undone all that he most desired to compass. 
His two sisters would not have spoken had 
he said nothing ; but now — nothing would 
prevent them “ letting justice have its course.” 
Jemima therefore said coldly, “Kezia, I do 
not know that thou and I are called upon to 
listen to the vain ravings of a senseless boy ; 
we will leave him, trusting that a better spirit 
will be given to him. But, Josiah, remem- 
ber we are not going to screen faults which 
we ought to expose. We shall speak to some 
elder, and ask him to inform Nathaniel Fox 
that his daughter, during her stay here, and 
while we believed her to be the engaged wite 
of our brother, was seen in the embrace of 
a strange man, and he a soldier.” 

“ It’s false!” roared Josiah, “and Nathaniel 
Fox knows of it already.” 

“ Knows of what?” cried both the sisters. 

Josiah with a great gulp at the final extin- 
guishing of all his hopes, said, like a brave, 
true-hearted man as he was, “ The man was 
Charles Verschoyle, her accepted husband.” 

CHAPTER XXXIII. — EXPLANATION AND RECON- 
CILIATION. 

Saturday had come round, Lady Laura 
had returned from Beauwood, and Audrey 
had determined that she would see Geoffrey 
Dynecourt again. If possible, she would go 
to Miss Bingham’s afternoon party ; and all 
her energies were now applied to obtain her 
mother’s aid in accomplishing this. She had 
resolved to keep Mr. Ford’s offer a secret 
from Lady Laura. She id not repent her 
refusal of him, but felt great comfort in 
knowing that she had settled her fate so far. 
If she had the slightest hope that Geoffrey 
Dynecourt still loved her, she believed she 
would be happy ; but though sometimes she 
indulged in delicious dreams of forgiveness 
and renewed love, they generally ended in 
tears and despair. 

Lady Laura was in excellent spirits. Her 
visit to Beauwood had been a success. Lady 
Spencer had made herself very agreeable to 
her, and she had been pressed to visit them 
again at Christmas. 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*33 


“ Considering all things, I am very glad I 
went,” she said. 

“ I am glad too,” said Audrey; “ I think it 
has done you good, mamma ; you are look- 
ing much better.” 

“ And how did you get on without me, 
dear ? I thought of you constantly.” 

“ Oh ! I managed very well. I went out 
in the mornings with Marshall, and yesterday 
afternoon Mr. Ford came to see me.” 

Lady Laura started up from the sofa and 
exclaimed, “ Mr. Ford ! Audrey, you don’t 
say so. Why, what did you do?” 

“ Oh ! I told him I was not well enough 
to go with you, but that 1 was gradually 
getting better, though not quite strong yet.” 

“ And he — he did not enter into anything 
personal?” 

“He said he was in town for a day or two, 
and he wanted to see how I was.” 

“ And you were quite cordial to him ?” 

“ Y es, quite ; I told him I was very glad 
to see him. He is coming again to go to 
an afternoon party which Mr. Marjori banks. 
Miss Bingham’s uncle, is to give at Ealing; 
and he brought us an invitation. He said he 
told Mrs. Winterton he knew you intended 
calling upon her, and as they were very 
anxious that we should come, he ottered to 
bring the card. I thought you would accept, 
and told Mr. Ford so, and I sent a little note 
to Miss Bingham.” 

“ That was quite right, my love,” said Lady 
Laura, whose hopes now began to revive with 
all their old force. “ Did he say that he had 
heard from me ?” 

“ No.” 

“ And his manner was the same as ever ?” 

“ Quite the same.” 

“ How very strange that he should have 
come the day I was away ! but everything 
seems to have turned out well,” and she 
looked sharply at her daughter, but Audrey’s 
face was unreadable. “ Then there was no- 
thing unpleasant during the interview, and 
you parted friends?” she added. 

“ Yes.” 

Lady Laura went over with the intention 
of kissing Audrey, but finding her daughter 
apparently unprepared for this unusual demon- 
stration, she quietly patted her head instead, 
saying, “ Good girl, you have acted as I knew 
you would, and very much lightened your 
mother’s heart.” 

“ Shall we go to this party ?” asked Audrey, 
not looking up. 

“Of couise, my dear. I shall call upon 
Mrs. Winterton to-day.” 

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. 


Oh, how the days dragged ; how long the 
hours seemed ; how wearily they passed ! 
And yet when Thursday came, Audrey would 
fain have had them all to go through again, 
so nervous and anxious did she feel. She 
had no hope ; only the certainty of future 
bitterness, and fruitless longing, seemed to 
stare her in the face. Still suspense was 
unendurable, and she knew herself well 
enough to be assured that nothing could 
try her so severely. 

“ Marshall, do make me look my best, to- 
day,” she said. 

“ Why, Miss Audrey, you don’t want my 
help. I never saw you looking better. Your 
eyes are as bright as when you were a little 
girl, and you’ve got quite a colour. I’m sure 
it’s a treat to hear you speak in your old >yay 
again, for you have not cared what you looked 
like lately.” 

So that afternoon, notwithstanding there 
were girls there in the first bloom of their 
youth, -resh as the flowers they sat among, — 
beauties whosevconquests and triumphs were 
only beginning^ — none of them attracted more 
attention than did Audrey Verschoyle, with 
her well-dressed elegant figure, her intellec- 
tual face, and her thorough-bred, unconscious, 
self-possessed manner. As she entered the 
room all eyes were turned towards her, and 
among others those of a man who felt his 
heart give quick heavy beats, and his vision 
become dimmed until all was blotted out, 
except that face blanched white and upturned 
to his ; a man who strained his ears to catch 
the sound of a voice which haunted him day 
and night, and yet who strove to command 
himself sufficiently to bend his head towards 
his companion and answer, — 

“ Yes, unusually cold for this time of year.” 

“Warm, I said,” laughed the lady with 
whom he was conversing. 

“ Yes, I meant warm,” answered Mr. 
Dynecourt. 

In another moment he had. touched 
Audrey’s hand, had expressed to Lady Laura 
his pleasure at seeing her looking so well, and 
his regret at hearing that her daughter had 
been an invalid, and made several other polite 
commonplace speeches. But not once had 
he turned his eyes upon Audrey, or addressed 
her in any way. As they moved on he looked 
at her, thinking — “ Her face looks as if it were 
chiselled out of marble — like her heart.” And 
yet he could have flung himself at her feet 
and implored her to cheat him again. He 
longed for one of the old loving looks, and 
wished he could again feel the soft pressure 
of her hand, and hear the low -toned whispers 


L34 


DOROTHY FOX. 


that had lured him to misery, even were he 
then to be cast away, a prey to bitterness and 
despair. 

And poor Audrey, how did it fare with 
her ? She seemed suddenly benumbed ; 
she was surprised she did not feel more. 
At home she had pictured their meeting, 
and how she would strive to look un- 
conscious, and restrain the tears that would 
be ready to flow freely if he were cold 
and distant, as she feared he might be. Now 
all her fears were realised. He had, as much 
as he could without attracting notice, utterly 
ignored her, and yet she did not seem to 
care — did not seem to care for anything that 
might happen to herself, or to anybody. 

Miss Bingham and Mrs. Winterton won- 
dered why Mr. Ford had not come. Lady 
Laura, too, was surprised, although she did 
not worry herself much, being satisfied that 
her daughter had got over her fit of refusing 
him, and was now quite ready to be Mrs. 
Richard Ford when asked. Her ladyship 
thought this happy result entirely owing to 
her own diplomacy, and prided herself greatly 
on her skill in leaving Audrey at home, 
moping by herself. She considered this to be 
the final touch which had brought about the 
desired end. So she lent a ready ear to a 
story told by Mr. Marjoribanks, of how he 
had been fascinated in days gone by with a 
portrait of herself in the “ Book of Beauty,” 
and that by it he should have recognised her 
anywhere. In recounting her past triumphs, 
and the homage which had been paid to a 
beauty of which, she said, she might now 
safely speak without being accused of vanity, 
her daughter was forgotten. 

Audrey was sitting for a few minutes alone, 
having asked Colonel Grant, with whom she 
had been talking, to get her some tea. Lilt- 
ing her eyes suddenly, she met a look of pas- 
sionate longing, that made every nerve tingle, 
and in an instant, without pausing to consider, 
she mada*a sign to Geoffrey Dynecourt to 
join her. He came to her at once, but 
with such sternness in his lace that Audrey 
could hardly steady her voice to say, “ I — 
I wanted to speak to you ; could you find 
some place where we should not be over- 
heard ?” 

Just then Colonel Grant returned with the 
tea, making many excuses for being delayed ; 
and Mr. Dynecourt said, “ I will look for 
the plant I was speaking of, Miss Verschoyle, 
and then perhaps you will permit me to show 
it to you.” 

He left her, and did not return until many 
of the company were moving about, looking 


at the ferns and rare plants, so that their 
being together was not likely to attract notice. 
“ Near to this,” he said, “there is a small 
room thrown open to the guests ; no one was 
in it a few minutes since, and we are less 
likely to be interrupted there than anywhere 
else.” 

Audrey bowed her head ; to speak seemed 
impossible. 

A short glass-covered passage led to the 
room, the door of which Mr. Dynecourt 
opened, but immediately closed, finding it 
already occupied by a lady and gentleman 
engaged in conversation. He hesitated a 
moment, and then said, “You must take a 
turn with me in the garden. You have your 
bonnet and cloak on, it will not harm you 
and before Audrey had time to question the 
propriety of this course she was walking by 
Geoffrey Dynecourt’s side, and feeling that 
she would have given the whole world to have 
been anywhere else. Why had she brought 
him there? She had nothing to say, her 
strength seemed to be forsaking her, and she 
was overcome with shame at the thought that 
she was forcing her love upon him, and that 
he saw it. This nerved her to make a great 
effort and say, “ Mr. Dynecourt, perhaps you 
may think me strangely inconsistent in want- 
ing to speak to you alone. But Mr. Ford told 
me that you were thinking of going abroad for 
many years, and I — I could not bear that you 
should have a bad opinion of me all your 
life.” 

“ A bad opinion,” he said ; “ who told you 
that I had a bad opinion of you?” 

“ No one told me so in words ; but the 
message you asked Mr. Ford to give me was 
no arrow shot at random. You knew it would 
wound where it was aimed.” 

“ Pardon me, Miss Verschoyle, if I say I 
had no idea that you could be wounded.” 

Audrey did not answer ; but turned with 
defiant eyes and looked straight at him as she 
said — 

“ Mr. Dynecourt, you are very hard upon 
me ; but perhaps it is best, for your pity 
would be unbearable, and for a moment I 
feared that I might have incurred it. I see 
now that I was wrong to intrude myself upon 
you, and take you from pleasant society to 
listen to the woman who has taught you to 
show a want of courtesy to her sex. I came, 
in the weakness of my nature, to ask you to 
forgive the pain I have caused you, and not 
ft) think because / seemed to you false and 
hard-hearted, that truth and love had ceased 
to exist among us. I hope there is yet much 
happiness in store for you.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*35 


“ Oh yes,” he said, “ I am certain of hap- 
piness. Exiled from my country, a homeless 
man without hope, without a creature to care 
for me, I cannot but be happy. If at any 
time a gloomy moment should come, I have 
but to recall the picture of my old home, 
the smell of whose very earth is dear to me. 
I have only to remember that it is in the 
hands of strangers ; that the people who 
loved me and served me, as their fathers did 


my fathers, are serving other masters; and 
that the woman I would have died for is 
mistress of Dyne Court, rejoicing in the 
lovely face which lured a weak fool to his 
destruction, and the arts which caught- the 
old man who could give her the only thing 
her soul longed for — money, fine clothes, and 
jewels.” 

“ It is false,” she said ; “ I shall never be 
the wife of Richard Ford '” 



“ You tell me so, when not an hour since 
I heard your mother receiving congratula- 
tions on your approaching marriage? How 
am I to believe you?” 

“ Because I tell you.” 

“You tell me what?” 

“That he has already asked me, and I 
have refused to marry him.” 

Geoffrey Dynecourt staggered and turned 
pale as death. 


“ And, sir,” she continued haughtily, “ now 
that I have added to my other sins in show- 
ing you how easily I can betray a confi- 
dence which noble-minded women consider 
sacred, it is time we parted,” and she turned 
to leave him. 

But Mr. Dynecourt grasped her arm and 
drawing her towards him said, in a voice 
choked with emotion, — 

“ Audrey, for the sake of God who sees 


«3 6 


DOROTHY FOX. 


both our hearts, don’t let us part like this. 
Have mercy upon me. Show me some pity, 
or I shall go mad. Have you nothing, 
nothing more to say to me ?” 

She lifted up her face, white to the lips, 
and looking for an instant into the eager, 
passionate eyes whose gaze seemed intense 
enough to read her thoughts, answered slowly, 

“Yes — that — I — love — you with all my 
heart !” and then cold, undemonstrative 
Audrey threw her arms round this man’s 
neck, and her tears rained upon his breast. 
He did not attempt to hush her, or to still 
her sobs, he only held her as if defying the 
whole world to tear her from him. 

“Audrey,” he whispered hoarsely, “you 
are not deceiving yourself and me? It is love,, 
not pity, that you are giving me ?” 

The tightening of her arms was her only 
answer. 

“You know I am poor, and that I never 
expect to be otherwise : that I can give you 
nothing but the necessaries of life ; that I ask 
you to share cares, anxieties, and perhaps 
troubles of which you have known nothing 
hitherto. What do you say?” 

She no longer hid her lace, but looking at 
him answered, “ That if you will take me, I 
will be your wife •” and in the kiss that sealed 
this bond “ their hearts leaped to their 
lips,” and vowed a constancy that death 
alone could sever 

Have they been hours together, or has 
time stood still, that the light looks only a 
shade dimmer than it did when they entered 
this garden of paradise ? Around nothing is 
changed, all is the very same except the two 
who are walking towards the house. Can 


this soft April expression, and these liquid, 
loving eyes belong to the cold, haughty- 
looking woman, whose face seemed chiselled 
out of marble ? Is it possible that Geoffrey 
Dynecourt has ever looked stern and relent- 
less, with hard lines about a mouth where 
now you could almost see dimples? 

“ And you are sure you never really ceased 
to love me?” 

“ Never; I used to hate myself, because I 
could not help loving you so madly.” 

“ And I have lain and cried myself to sleep, 
thinking of our bitter parting, and that you 
had forgotten me.” 

“ Oh, Audrey, how could I, how could 
any man who had ever loved you, cease to love 
you? My darling, night after night I have 
watched your window, and as I passed the 
house I have rested my hand against the 
wall, because inside was the treasure whose 
image filled my heart.” 

“ We I ave both suffered ! ” she said. 

“We have indeed, dearest, but how small 
it seems to the joy that I feel now ! Oh ! 
Audrey, I could ask you every moment if 
you love me, for the ecstasy of hearing you 
say you do.” 

“ And I could listen to the question for 
ever, so sweet is it to know that you want my 
love.” 

“ We must go in,” he said ; “ I dare not 
keep you out longer, and yet to meet other 
people now seems more than I can bear.” 

“ We only part until to-morrow, and my 
thoughts will not leave you for one moment 
then with her old gaiety she added, “ Now 
let us gather up all our energies to meet the 
attack with boldness ; for it tails me to think 
where the people imagine we can be.” 



DOROTHY FOX. 


1 37 


IP-AJR.T SI. 



CHAPTER XXXIV -“WHAT CAN HE WANT?” 

UDREY and 
G e o ff r e y 
Dynecourt 
carried off 
the excla- 
mations of 
surprise at 
their ab- 
sence in a 
very clever 
manner, 
aided greatly 
by Lady 
Laura’s per- 
fect tran- 
quillity re- 
garding their 
movements. 
She said she 
ce r t ain ly 
ought to 
scold Mr. Dynecourt for permitting Audrey 
to act so foolishly, although, as she re- 
marked to those near her, “ I quite ex- 
pected her to be missing, for Audrey can’t 
stand the heat of a room, or of any covered 
place when she has her bonnet on. I re- 
member Lady Alfreton taking her to an 
affair of this kind, and she went roaming 
about thg grounds, and was absolutely lost.” 
She did not mention that this was in the 
height of summer, when most of the people 
there did the same. In her heart, Lady 
Laura was very much annoyed at her daugh- 
ter’s conduct, but she was too wise to give 
others a handle against her by betraying the 
slightest vexation. 

“ It’s absurd,” thought she, “ for Audrey 
to be setting everybody at defiance ; and 
Mr. Ford would not probably like to hear 
that she was so entirely engrossed with 
another in his absence. I shall speak to her 
as soon as we are alone.” 

Very soon after this she was expressing to 
Mr. Majoribanks how much she had enjoyed 
his pleasant gathering. Then, leaning on her 
host’s arm, she left, distributing smiles, adieux, 
and farewell compliments, causing a perfect 
chorus of, “What a charming woman!” to 
follow her departure. 

Mr. Dynecourt escorted Audrey to the 
carriage. Just before it drove off, he asked 
Lady Laura if she would be disengaged at j 


two o'clock the next day, as he wished her to 
give him a few minutes’ conversation. 

“ Certainly, I shall be very pleased to see 
you,” she said, with her most fascinating 
smile. Waiting for a moment, she turned 
suddenly to her daughter, and said, “ What 
can he want ? I have not been speaking 
about him to anybody, have I ?” 

Audrey was glad that her face could not be 
seen. Left with her mother, she did not know 
what to do. Tell her she must; she could 
never let this thunderbolt be launched by 
Geoffrey first. She knew a storm would be 
sure to follow, and thought it best to allow 
some of the violence to be spent before 
he came. Yet how to begin, or what to say 
or do she could not tell. To have con- 
templated a marriage with a poor man at any 
time would have been a dreadful crime ; now, 
when a rich suitor was at her feet, the 
offence would be a thousand times greater. 

“ I wonder what could have prevented 
Mr. Ford from coming,” continued Lady 
Laura, “ I dare say you will have a letter 
from him to-night. I hope he is not ill.” 

“ I hope not,” returned her daughter. 

“ And, Audrey, I must say that 1 think you 
acted very unwisely to-day in permitting Mr. 
Dynecourt to pay you so much attention.” 

“ Did he pay me much attention, mamma?” 

“ Well, you know what I mean. I suppose 
if it had not been for the sake of getting up 
some stupid sort of flirtation with him, you 
would not have gone roaming into the gar- 
den, or to some distant greenhouse, or 
wherever you did go. I made the best of it, 
but I assure you I was not pleased ; and, let 
me tell you, nobody can afford to set people’s 
tongues at nought before marriage.” 

“ Can they afterwards ? because if so, I 
shall get married as soon as possible.” 

“Well, of course, when a woman has a 
husband, and a good house, and her position 
is established, people are very lenient to her 
peculiarities. If you choose to make a friend 
of one person then, do so ; though, remem- 
ber, it’s rather a task to turn a bear into a 
domestic animal,” and Lady Laura laughed 
at her own sharpness. 

“I don’t quite understand the allusion,” 
said Audrey. 

“Don’t you, dear?” replied Lady Laura 
playfully. “Well, you know I always look 
upon Mr Dynecourt as having something of 


138 


DOROTHY FOX. 


the savage about him, and one never knows 
when the nature of such people will peep out.” 

“ I am sorry you do not like him,” replied 
her daughter. 

“ Oh ! I like him well enough ; and if he 
is to be a favourite of yours, my dear child, 
rest assured I shall never interfere with you.” 

“ Then is securing my regard the same as 
securing yours, mamma?” 

“ Of course it will be, love.” 

“ But is it now?” 

“Yes, decidedly.” 

“ Then in that case, I need not hesitate to 
tell you why Mr. Dynecourt is coming to 
see you to-morrow,” said Audrey ; her heart 
beat very fast, and she felt desperately 
nervous ; but it was of no use waiting ; she 
had better have it over — “ and that is because 
he wants your consent to marry me.” 

Lady Laura paused for a moment to take 
in the words fully, then she laughed, “ Marry 
you ! well, that is a good joke. Has he 
never heard about Mr. Ford?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then, my dear, you are carrying the thing 
a great deal too far. I had no idea that there 
was any flirtation going on between you ; but 
I think you might have spared me the trouble 
of answering him. If you do not want to 
make an enemy of the man, you need not 
have said you did not care for him. You 
could have given him to understand that you 
had already accepted Mr. Ford.” 

“ But I have not accepted Mr. Ford.” 

“ Well, perhaps not in words, but you 
mean to marry him.” 

“ No, I do not.” 

“ Not intend to marry Mr. Ford?” 

“No, mamma, and I may as well tell you 
all, at once. Mr. Ford has proposed to me, 
and I have refused him ; and Mr. Dyne- 
court has asked me to marry him, and I 
have accepted him.” 

“Audrey !” almost screamed Lady Laura, 
“you’re mad ; I’m positive you are, you 
wicked ! bad ! abandoned girl ! you must be. 
I don’t believe it’s true, you’re only saying 
this to worry and annoy me, and I can’t stand 
it; your conduct already has so upset my 
nerves that I feel as if the slightest strain 
would make me break down altogether.” 

“ Mamma, I am very sorry. I know I told 
you very abruptly, but it is better that you 
should know the truth.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me, then, that what 
you have just said is true, and that you really 
intend to act in this way?” asked Lady 
Laura, speaking very slowly. 

“Yes, mamma.” 


“Then you never shall!” exclaimed her 
mother. “ I’d rather put you into a lunatic 
asylum than allow you to marry that penni- 
less, senseless beggar. Never, Audrey, never 
shall you marry that man.” 

“ Of course, I am 'prepared for your being 
very angry, and very disappointed, mamma. 
I have no doubt were I in your place I 
should be the same. Perhaps just now it is 
useless for me to say how sorry I am to 
grieve you, still I am truly sorry ; but don’t say 
I shall never marry Mr. Dynecourt. Listen 
to reason, mamma.” 

“ I will listen to nothing ; and you had 
better write and tell him not to dare to 
come near me, or I’ll have him put out of 
the house — the impertinent, presuming, red- 
headed fellow.” 

The latter epithet was too much for Au- 
drey’s gravity, the absurdity of such a reflec- 
tion being cast upon Geoffrey’s tawny locks 
turned her anger at once, and she said, in a 
softened voice — 

“I know, mamma, my choice must appear 
to you to be unaccountable, but when I tell 
you, I love this man well enough, I believe, 
to beg my very bread with him, surely, with 
such a feeling in my heart, you will not 
counsel me to marry Mr. Ford.” 

“ You ought to marry Mr. Ford, and have 
no feeling in your heart.” 

“ Quite so ; and as long as I had no feeling 
I was willing to become his wife — but now 
I would rather jump into the river than 
do so.” 

“ And I would rather see you lying there 
than disgraced. Oh, what have I done, that 
my children should treat me so shamefully ! 
But as you have no thought for me, I will 
have none for you, and I’ll tell every one 
that you’re mad, and your new lover shall 
have a nice account of your former conduct. 
I’ll tell him how you have deceived and 
cajoled others, — that your love for him is 
only a pretence ; that you have no heart, 
and never had one.” 

“ All that will fall on deaf ears, mamma ; 
he knows my best and my worst, and, thank 
God, he is content to take me as I am. But 
understand, mamma, although I wish to give 
you all the obedience and respect that you are 
entitled to, yet I intend to marry Geoffrey 
Dynecourt; therefore I trust you will not 
force me to do anything which might give rise 
to scandal. I am content to wait your time, 
to take your advice, to iollow out any plan 
you may think best, but I intend to marry 
Geoffrey Dynecourt ; and I also intend the 
world to know it.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*39 


“ Oh yes, publish your disgrace as soon 
as possible.” 

“ Do not speak in that way, mother, for 
love has so softened me that I long to throw 
my arms round you, and sob out my happi- 
ness ;” and she hid her face in her hands and 
cried bitterly. 

“ If you had made a proper choice I should 
have been very pleased to have received any 
proof of your affection. But when I remem- 
ber how you have deceived me, by never 
saying one word of this, and leading me to 
suppose that you would marry Mr. Ford, I 
can put little faith in either your love or your 
tears. What I can possibly say to that man I 
know not. I fully expect he’ll threaten us with 
an action, and I cannot blame him if he does.” 

“ You need not fear Mr. Ford troubling 
you ; he was far kinder to me than you have 
been, mamma.” 

“Very glad to get quit of his bargain,” 
sneered her ladyship ; “ and I am sure no 
one need wonder at it. You seem to think 
that you are somebody, to encourage and 
lead people on, and then refuse them ; but 
I can tell you the world won't be so ready 
to believe your story. Common sense will 
tell people that, unless you are mad — as I 
believe you are — it is not very probable that 
a passe woman of thirty, without good looks 
or accomplishments — for / don’t know what 
you can do — would refuse a man whose only 
folly is, that with such a fortune as his he has 
not aimed higher. Lady Inverlochy would 
have jumped at him for one of her girls; 
and as lor the Grahams, they were after him 
like a pack of hounds.” 

“ Well, mamma,” said Audrey, smiling, 
“ now they can try their chance. I will 
promise not to interfere with any one, if 
they will only let me alone.” 

“ Oh, yes ! just like your selfish nature,” 
exclaimed her mother. “As long as your 
wishes are gratified you never consider other 
people. It will be very pleasant for me to 
hear the sneers and inuendoes of women whose 
daughters have made excellent matches. I 
know their way of supposing it is a love- 
match, and adding, ‘ What else could it be 
for?’ A polite reminder that they are quite 
aware of the poverty of the whole affair. 
What your brother will say, I do not know.” 

“ Say ! What can he say ? I am sure he 
did all he could to put me against Mr. Ford.” 

“ That is only because men always under- 
rate what they consider secure. You’ll find 
he will not be so delighted to have a brother- 
in-law whose present position I consider to be 
only one step above that of a tradesman.” 


Audrey laughed outright. “ Well, mamma, 
that is just what I want you to see — that, 
after all, Geoffrey is in advance of Mr. Ford.” 

Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders, saying, 
if they had come to quibbling about words, 
it was time to put a stop to the conversation. 
She sat silent for the few minutes before 
they reached home, stepped out of the car- 
riage, and betook herself to her own room, 
from which she did not emerge during the 
rest of the evening. 

Audrey sat considering how she could best 
soften her mother’s wrathful indignation, and 
keep her rather sharp tongue in check, during 
the interview which she so much dreaded 
for Geoffrey Dynecourt. His poverty, she 
feared, would be rather a sore subject with 
him when made the target for all the arrow's 
with which her mother intended to pierce 
him. If Charles were only at hand, she 
thought he might make matters smoother for 
her. So, after thinking over it y she wrote and 
asked him to help her. Lady Laura w r as 
similarly employed; so the same post con- 
veyed two letters to Captain Verschoyle, 
both of them begging him to return home at 
once. Audrey’s said — • 

“ Dearest Charlie, — For the sake of old 
days, give me your help. Something has hap- 
pened which has made mamma very angry, 
and she will not listen to me, or to sense or 
reason. To you she would probably pay 
more attention ; will you therefore come home 
as soon as you can, and try to set matters 
straight between us ? 

“ Ever your loving sister, 

“ Audrey.” 

“ P.S. — I cannot explain anything in a 
letter ; but I am so happy, and I am longing 
to hear some one say they are glad to hear it.” 

Lady Laura wrote : — 

“ My dear Charles, — Audrey has gone 
mad ; quite mad, I believe. I can give you 
no explanation of her conduct in a letter. 
As I trust it may still be hushed up, I 
do not like to say a word on paper ; but I 
must see you. So make any excuse you like 
to Mr. Egerton, and return at once to 

“ Your affectionate, but really distracted 
mother, 

“ Laura Verschoyle.” 

CHAPTER XXXV. — RED-COAT ASSURANCE. 

Abigail Fletcher, Patience Fox’s only 
sister, was a tiny, fragile, dark-eyed little 
woman, with a stout will and opinion of her 


DOROTHY FOX. 


14a 


own, a quick vivacious temperament, and a 
general interest in the affairs ot all her friends 
and acquaintances. Most people in and about 
York knew the Fletchers. Therefore when 
Dorothy told Mr. Egerton she was going to 
visit her aunt, he made greater friends with 
her, telling her he remembered her mother 
well, and adding, “Though I have not a shake- 
hands acquaintance with your aunt, we know 
each other.” 

To Captain Verschoyle the old gentleman 
was not disposed to be quite so amiable, and 
to Dorothy’s horror Charles received two or 
three decided snubs. When they reached 
the station Miss Fletcher was waiting for 
Dorothy. Mr. Egerton jumped out and told 
her that he had been entrusted by Mr. 
Crewdson with the care of her niece, and he 
had much pleasure in finding that York could 
claim an interest in the young lady, “ <or 
her face does as much credit to it as her 
mother’s did before her.” 

This led to a conversation about Patience 
and old days, during which Dorothy and Cap- 
tain Verschoyle found time to say a few words 
to each other and to arrange a meeting. 

“ But you must introduce me to your aunt,” 
said Charles. 

“Oh, yes,” said Dorothy, feeling very’ 
nervous about performing this ceremony. A 
pause occurred, and she began, “ Aunt 
Abigail, this is Charles Verschoyle. Mother 
knows him,” she added timidly. 

“That’s right, Miss Fox, back him up 
with a good reference ; I am sure his appear- 
ance requires it, ’’ said Mr. Egerton. 

Fortunately Aunt Abigail knew the eccen- 
tric character of Mr. Egerton, so without re- 
plying to this comment she held out her hand 
to Captain Verschoyle, made a few remarks 
to him, and, asking Dorothy if she were quite 
ready, entered the fly which was waiting for 
them. 

The two gentlemen watched the fly till it 
was out of sight, and Mr. Egerton, taking 
his god son’s arm, walked on for a few 
minutes in silence, and then said — 

“When I unearthed you twice near Miss 
Fletcher’s, why couldn’t you have told me 
what took you in that direction ? What need 
was there for trumping up a story about 
Hartop ? I suppose you aren’t ashamed of 
knowing the girl, are you?” 

“Ashamed!” said Captain Verschoyle, 
showing through his bronzed skin the colour 
which the question brought to his cheeks ; 
“ I don’t quite understand you.” 

“ Oh, that is a pity ! ” replied Mr. Egerton, 
with a sneer. “ You’re so uncommonly 


sharp generally, particularly in deceiving 
other people when you have a game of your 
own on hand. Ha, ha !” he suddenly roared, 
“ I can’t help laughing when I think of your 
face ; I never saw a iellow so chop-fallen in 
my life. So you thought I didn't know you 
were going to Leeds ?” 

“ I really did not think or care about it. 
Miss Fox’s sister has shown me a great deal 
of kindness, and knowing that I should 
probably see her in town, I thought it would 
only be civil to call and inquire for the 
young lady.” 

“ You’re your father’s own son, Charlie,” 
said the old gentleman. “ You’ve a precious 
awkward way of telling a lie. Now your 
mother does it handsomely^; but then it’s a 
woman’s trade. How did you come to know 
this girl ? Who is she ? What’s her father ?” 

Captain Verschoyle tried to cover his 
vexation by pretending to be amused. “ Upon 
my word, sir, one would imagine that you 
thought I had some serious design upon the 
young lady, whom I know because she is the 
sister of Mrs. H anbury, of Fryston Grange.” 

“ Well, then, who is the lather of Mrs. 
Hanbury of Fryston Grange? and who’s Han- 
bury? You don’t think I forget your ways 
of asking everybody’s pedigree, that after 
eating their dinners and drinking their wines 
you may turn up your aristocratic noses at 
them and their belongings. I know you’re 
beating about the bush, Charlie, so you may 
as well tell me whether he’s a tallow-chandler, 
or a cheesemonger; for, fortunately for us, 
card-playing, racing, betting, or most other 
ways of getting money under false pretences, 
are not popular professions among the middle- 
classes yet.” 

Captain Verschoyle saw that he had better 
answer in a straightforward manner, so he 
said — 

“ Mrs. Hanbury’s husband is a corn 
merchant in London, and her father is a 
cloth dealer in the West of England.” 

“ West of England ! What do you mean 
by the West of England ?” 

“ Why, Plymouth.” 

“Why don't you say Plymouth, then? 
That’s where you were sick so long after 
landing in England Oh, so you made the 
acquaintance there.” 

“ Really, sir, you are making a great deal 
out of nothing,” said Captain Verschoyle, 
losing his temper. “ Out of mere courtesy 
I call upon a young lady, to ask if she has 
any commissions for her sister, and you twist 
it about and question me, as if you thought 
I were going to propose to her immediately.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


I 4 I 


“No; I’ve not got that thought in my 
head, Charlie. But I have this one, you 
have a good many philandering ways about 
you which a girl like that doesn’t understand. 
The young fellows she has been accustomed 
to, haven’t been blessed with your red-coat 
assurance, so they don’t take it for granted 
that anything becomes them. Why, she’s a 
baby compared to the vomen you’re ac- 
customed to. Her blushing smiles and tears 
come as quickly as sunshine and cloud on 
an April morning.” 

“ You’re speaking plainly, sir.” 

“Yes, I generally do, particularly to you, 
my boy ; but I never yet left you in a scrape 
if I could get you out.” 

“That you never did,” replied Captain 
Verschoyle, his anger vanishing as he re- 
membered the many substantial acts of kind- 
ness he had received Irom his godfather. 
“ Now, tell me what’s all this about, and 
what do you mean ?” 

“ Why this — that that girl has caught your 
fancy, and you want her to be equally taken 
with you. Well, you’ve no intention of 
marrying her. and some fine day the time for 
parting comes. Until you are out of her 
sight, of course, you are heart-broken ; but 
after that you are consoled by a cigar, or 
a new friend ; while she frets and pines after 
you, smiles and rejects an honest man who 
would have tried to make her happy, and 
finally becomes a discontented wile, or a 
soured old maid.” 

“ In this case, although all you say were 
true, I could not marry the young lady. 
Quakers don’t permit their daughters to marry 
soldiers, I believe. I remember hearing Miss 
Fox say, that nothing would induce her to 
disobey her parents in such a matter.” 

Mr. Egerton looked at his companion 
sharply from under his shaggy eyebrows ; 
but Captain Verschoyle avoided the scrutiny, 
and calling his attention to some other mat- 
ter, the subject for the time dropped. 

At Darington Captain Verschoyle found 
the letters from Audrey and his mother, and 
as he dressed for dinner he speculated some- 
times on what could be wrong with his sister ; 
but more frequently on what he should do 
about Dorothy. “ Entreat her to marry me 
if I stay here, I know ; for after parting with 
her I found myself thinking how I could best 
manage it, and it was wonderful how my 
hopes of military glory faded before the rosy 
sun which illumined ‘ Love in a cottage.’ I 
wish I had never seen the child — the idea of 
sacrificing a sweet pretty creature like her to 
that prim-faced Crewdson ; a fellow with no 


more sense than he was born with — nothing 
of the man about him — a fine specimen of a 
lover, in truth. What can some parents be 
thinking of? They don’t care who their children 
marry so long as they get rid of them ; and 
I suspect old Fox is one of that kind. Perhaps 
Crewdson has money — I shouldn’t wonder — 
it generally falls to the lot of wooden-headed 
mummies to get all they want. Now if I 
had a decent income I’d snap my fingers at 
the world, and marry who I please ; as it is, 

I don’t know what to do. I don’t see that 
I am to blame now, because I have offered 
to give up everything for her, and she won’t 
have me. She says that her father wouldn’t 
give his consent, and that she would not ask 
him. I can’t do more than that, and, as 
Egerton says, it’s no use making the child dis- 
contented. I believe I shall feel the breaking 
oft more than she will : but it is as much for 
her sake as for my own — she says we could 
not be happy and then Captain Verschoyle 
discontentedly flung his boots to the other 
end of the room, and himself into a chair, 
exclaiming, “ I’m a terribly unlucky fellow 
in love affairs. Whenever hearts are trumps 
I’m safe to hold a bad hand.” 

While Captain Verschoyle indulged in 
these reflections, Dorothy .was engaged in 
the difficult task of telling Aunt Abigail that 
she no longer thought of marrying Josiah 
Crewdson. She feared her father would be 
disappointed, but she found it impossible. 
Aunt Abigail was not in any way surprised, 
as notwithstanding all Josiah’s good qualities, 
his appearance and manners were decidedly 
against him. In vain, however, did she try 
to discover any new lover who had driven 
the old one from her niece’s mind. Dorothy 
kept guard over her lips, and not until she 
was alone did she permit herself to review 
the event of the day. The sweetest words 
echoed in her memory were those of Charles 
Verschoyle when he said that he would give 
up anything for her sake — even his profes- 
sion ; and that he would try and be a Friend. 
Oh ! if he would do that, her father could 
not say no ; it would not be right of him to 
refuse without a just cause. And thinking 
over all he had told her she tried to stifle 
her conscience, and to reconcile with her 
principles what she had done. She was not. 
quite easy about Kezia Crewdson, anti shud- 
dered to think of her having seen them. “ I 
will tell father that I did not act rightly,” 
she thought, “ and how sorry I was after. I 
do not deserve the happiness which I trust 
is yet in store for me.” 

The following morning Dorothy tried to 


142 


DOROTHY FOX. 


persuade herself that she was really very tired, 
and unable to accompany her aunt during her 
usual walk. Nevertheless, as she sat alone, 
she started up' and listened nervously to 
every ring of the bell, as if expecting a 
visitor, until Jane announced Captain Vers- 
choyle. He had brought Miss Fletcher some 
flowers, he said, and wanted to know if 
Dorothy had any message for her sister, as 
he was unexpectedly recalled to London. 
All this was told while Jane was in the 
room ; but as soon as she had left it Captain 
Verschoyle seated himself nearer to Dorothy, 
saying, “ It is so annoying, just when I 
wanted to stay with you ; but I shall only be 
gone a few days, and you will, of course, 
be here when I return?” 

“ I don’t know — perhaps so,” she an- 
swered, trying not to betray her anguish at 
hearing him speak of going away. 

Now in this Captain Verschoyle was acting 
contrary to his nature, which was sincere and 
honourable of its kind ; but his bringing up 
could not be thrown aside in a day. Although 
love was undermining the fabric of selfish- 
ness and pride which contact with the 
world had built up within him, every now 
and then his training rebelled, and his 
temper suffered. This made him say some- 
what sharply, “ Really you seem indifferent 
on the- subject. I fancied it might be of 
some slight importance to you.” 

“ Charles, what dost thou mean ?” she 
said, looking at him surprised and sorrowful. 

“ Why,” he answered, working himself 
into a heat, and glad to find some one on 
whom to fling a portion of the accusing 
burden .which tormented him, “ I mean that 
it is very hard upon a man, after having 
given all his love, to find that he has no 
influence. Of course I should not ask you 
to disobey your father, when doing so would 
make you miserable, but I hardly expected 
to find that you had determined to give up 
nothing for me.” 

“ But thou saidst, that forme thou wouldst 
give up being a soldier.” 

“Yes, that is it; /am to give up every- 
thing for you , but you give up nothing in 
return. My profession, in spite of all you 
may have been taught to the contrary, is an 
honourable one ; and so dear to me that no 
woman who truly loved me would desire 
me to make such a sacrifice for her sake.” 

Dorothy did not turn her white face 
towards him, as she said, “ Then thou didst 
not mean what thou saidst yesterday ?” 

“ Of course I meant it, and mean it still, 
if you insist.” 


“No; I have no thought of insisting. 
We will forget yesterday, and will do what I 
always knew to be right. Thou and I are 
different in every way. It was no fault of 
thine that I loved thee. I could not help it ; 
but I should have striven against it, and then 
all this would not have happened.” 

By this time Captain Verschoyle was not 
only enraged with himself, but also with 
Dorothy. He had come there with the inten- 
tion of announcing his departure, and had 
pictured Dorothy’s distress at hearing of it. 
He had said to himself, that while he was 
trying to soothe and comfort her, perhaps it 
would be best to strive with gentle tender- 
ness to show her how impossible it was for 
him to give up his profession, and if she were 
certain that her father would not give his 
consent to their marriage, why it would be 
useless to ask it. Though it broke both 
their hearts, he supposed they must part, 
and once apart, it would be easier for each 
to forget. 

Dorothy, by making the proposal herself, 
without waiting for all those caresses which 
were to dull the pain of separation, had over- 
thrown this plan, to Captain Verschoyle’s 
great annoyance. He said all the reproach- 
ful things he could to her, and while she sat 
listening, still and motionless, he had a desire 
to shake her as he would do a refractory child. 
Finally saying that they were evidently in 
no mood for companionship, he took up his 
hat, and wishing her “ good morning,” dashed 
out of the room. And then, with the incon- 
sistency of a lover, he waited to see if she 
would not come after him imploring the for- 
giveness he was longing now to give her. 
His heart smote him sharply as he thought 
that perhaps the dear little thing was crying. 
What a horrid temper he had ! He would 
go back and tell her he never meant her to 
believe one word that he had said. And it 
would be so delicious to know that she could 
not part in that way ; and to hear her asking 
to be forgiven. He was tempted to try. He 
would open the outer door, and if that did 
not bring her to him he would go back 
immediately. So, putting this thought into 
execution, he with some unnecessary clatter 
opened the house door, and then gave vent 
to an exclamation of surprise, for on the step 
stood Josiah Crewdson. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. — SECRET UNEASINESS. 

On the Thursday following that on which 
Dorothy had left Fryston Grange, Nathaniel 
Fox walked to King’s-heart in a state of great 
mental excitement and perturbation. 



“ HE SAID ALL THE REPROACHFUL THINGS HE COULD TO HER.” 

Page 142. 









DOROTHY FOX. 


Patience was sitting in the little morning 
room when her husband entered, and one 
glance at his face told her that something of 
importance had gone wrong. He looked 
round, and thinking they might be overheard 
by the gardener, who was working near the ! 
window, and by Lydia, who was engaged in 
the dining-room, he said — 

“ Patience, I desire to speak to thee. 
Come up-stairs.” 

She obeyed, following Nathaniel into their 
own room, the door of which he shut. Then, 
turning round so as to face his wife, he de- 
manded — 

“ Hav’n’t I heard thee speak of Charles 
Verschoyle — who is this young man?” 

“ He is the person who fainted once in 
the shop at Plymouth. He afterwards came 
here to thank me, or rather Judith, whom he 
took for me, for my kind attention to him. 
When Dorothy and I went to London we 
met him accidentally at the railway station. 
As I told thee, he took care ot us till Grace 
arrived. She, thinking he was a friend of 
ours, invited him to dinner, and at Fryston 
we met again. Why dost thou ask ?” 

Nathaniel took no notice of his wife’s 
question, but walked up and down in deep 
meditation while she sat waiting for the reply 
which she knew would come. At last stop- 
ping before her he said — 

“ Something has occurred to-day which 
never happened in our family before, Patience. 

I have been taken to task, rebuked, and 
admonished concerning my conduct and the 
conduct of my daughter.” 

“Nathaniel!” exclaimed Patience. “For 
what reason ?” 

“Joshua Prideaux came to me to-day, and 
asked to have some private talk with me. He 
then showed me a letter from John Millar 
of Leeds, stating that it was with much pain 
and surprise that he informed him that I, 
Nathaniel Fox, had dealt in an underhand 
and unfriendly way with Josiah Crewdson. 
Because that while I was allowing him to 
suppose that my daughter would one day 
become his wife, I had already given my 
consent to her marrying Charles Verschoyle, 
a man who is a soldier. Now, Patience, 
hast thou heard anything of this ? What 
does it mean?” And Nathaniel’s stern face 
seemed to darken with the inward resent- 
ment which such a scandal aroused. 

“ I am as much amazed as thou art, dear. 
Who can have made such an imputation upon 
us ?” 

“That is the extraordinary part. Josiah 
Crewdson told his sisters so in justification | 


MS 


of Dorothy’s unwarrantable behaviour to this 
man, while she was staying at Holberton.” 

“Nathaniel!” said Patience, “doth not 
this show thee the falsehood of the whole 
thing? Our Dorothy behave in an unseemly 
! manner, and Josiah Crewdson obliged to 
screen her!” And Patience smiled in her 
incredulity and staunch belief in her child’s 
rectitude. 

“ Of course,” he replied, “ I know some- 
thing is false. Why, Patience, if I thought 
that in one month my child could forget her 
training, principles, and obedience to us 
I’d ” 

But Patience caught him by the arm. 

“ Hush, dear,” she said ; “ parents with as 
little expectation of a trial as we ourselves, 
have had one. I believe nothing against 
Dorothy. But if the time ever came when 
we must, we would. I know, try to follow the 
example of a Father who is ever tender 
towards erring children.” 

But Nathaniel seemed not to hear. He 
shook her hand off, and continued his moody 
walk. 

“ I shall write to Josiah and to Grace,” he 
said ; “ and thou hadst better tell thy sister 
Abigail that Dorothy must come home at 
once. If such reports as these are being 
circulated, it is better that she were under 
our own eyes. Oh, why did we let her go 
there, Patience ? The girl was happy and 
contented, and would have continued so until 
a worthy man took her for his wife. I was 
overruled, but I doubted my judgment. I 
knew that the world, with its snares and pit- 
falls, was no place for an innocent girl.” 

“ Thy theory is wrong, as I often tell thee,” 
said Patience, hoping to divert his mind by 
argument. “ Thou art ever confounding igno- 
rance and innocence, both of which may 
exist without the other. If I have any fear 
for Dorothy, it is because she has never been 
shown many things which might serve to 
guard her against herself.” 

Nathaniel shook his head. 

“ What sort of a person is this young man 
Verschoyle ?” 

“ He is not a very young man. He looks 
older than he is, perhaps, by being bronzed 
with the sun. He has a very winning, kindly 
manner, and I think I might say he would do 
nothing dishonourable.” 

“ Dishonourable !” echoed Nathaniel con- 
temptuously ; “ that, probably, means that he 
may be godless, immoral, and unprincipled, 
so long as he does not break rules set up by 
libertines like himself.” 

“ Thou art judging with undue harshness, 


DOROTHY FOX. 


146 


Nathaniel. I know nothing of Charles 
Verschoyle beyond exchanging the passing 
civilities of every-day life with him. But it 
would not be fair to receive civilities from all 
denominations, and yet believe that good 
motives could only dwell in members of our 
own Society.” 

But Nathaniel was too thoroughly annoyed 
to listen calmly to anything like reason from 
his wife. He could not bear to think 
that a man like Joshua Prideaux should 
have it in his power to administer a re- 
buke to him, and take him to task as he 
had done, for permitting his daughter to be 
the engaged wife of a soldier. He permit 
such a thing ! when he had invariably used 
every effort to support all Peace movements 
and to discourage war. And this the Society 
both at Leeds and Plymouth well knew. So 
he wrote to Josiah Crewdson, demanding 
information respecting all that he had been 
charged with. He also wrote to Grace, 
desiring to know what intimacy existed be- 
tween Dorothy and Charles Verschoyle, and 
whether she knew where the young man then 
was. 

Patience wrote a long and guarded letter 
to Dorothy, telling her that she had better 
return home at once, and another letter to her 
sister Abigail, informing her a little more 
fully of her secret uneasiness. 

CHAPTER XXXVII.' — THE QUAKER’S QUIXOTIC 
LOVE. 

Nathaniel Fox’s letter bein'g directed to 
Holberton Hall, with a view to Josiah read- 
ing it to his sisters, he did not receive it 
before he left for York. His visit to Dorothy, 
therefore, only proceeded from Josiah’s own 
fears, rather than from any knowledge of what 
was taking place. 

When Captain Verschoyle so unexpectedly 
opened Abigail Fletcher’s door, Josiah 
fancied the whole matter was settled. He 
wondered at seeing Dorothy run up-stairs 
without paying any attention to either of 
them. He said he hoped Captain Verschoyle 
was well, and informed him that they were 
having seasonable weather. His nervous lo- 
quacity being stopped by Captain Verschoyle 
asking him somewhat sharply if he were 
‘‘going in,” Josiah jumped on one side. 

“ Oh, thanks,” said Captain Verschoyle 
impatiently, “ because I am going out. 
Good morning.” And the gallant officer 
walked away, anathematizing Quakers gene- 
rally, and “ that fool Crewdson ” in par- 
ticular. 

Josiah lingered about and finally went into 


the room which Dorothy had vacated, and 
waited for her to come down-stairs. His 
mind was filled with sickening anxiety lest 
Aunt Abigail should return — Captain Vers- 
choyle, hoping that Josiah might take the 
hint, having said she was out. Once or twice 
he got up to ring the bell, but sat down 
again. At length, when he had quite made 
up his mind that he would send word 
that he was there and could not stay long, 
Dorothy appeared, saying that she feared she 
had exhausted his patience, but Josiah de- 
clared she had not in the least done so. 
Then they indulged in a little irrelevant con- 
versation, until Josiah feeling that he coulo 
no longer delay what he had come purposely 
to announce, suddenly got up, looked out of 
the window, and then returned to his place 
to say — 

“ Oh, Dorothy ! I suppose thou hast 
altered thy mind?” 

“ How?” For Dorothy was in no talking 
mood. She was in the dull state of grief 
when everything is heard and done with an 
effort, inducing one to sit still, silent and 
stunned. 

“ I mean that I met Charles Verschoyle 

at the door, so I thought that perhaps 

Oh, Dorothy, do not mind telling me. Thou 
hast changed thy mind and wilt marry him — 
is it not so ?” 

“ No.” 

“ But he has written to thy father. Thou 
wilt tell him of it?” 

Dorothy shook her head. 

Poor Josiah ! he wondered what he should 
do. How could he inform her that Kezia 
had told him of the scene which she had 
witnessed in the drawing-room? More than 
that, how could he tell her that his sisters had 
made it their business to spread among Friends 
the report of Dorothy Fox’s engagement to a 
soldier, while they and their brother regarded 
her as his future wife? Nathaniel would be 
certain to tax her with it, and was it not better 
that she should be in some way prepared. 

“ Dorothy,” he began again — and he drew 
an imaginary pattern on the carpet with his 
foot, that she might be quite certain he was 
not looking at her — “ Kezia, it seems, looked 
at thee through the window.” 

Dorothy uttered a sharp cry of pain. 

“ Oh, thou wilt not mind me, Dorothy !” 
he added quickly. “ I did not listen to what 
she said, only sisters made a great deal of it. 
They are not like we are, thou knowest, and 
they thought I should speak to thy father; 
and so I said that he knew it, as Charles 
Verschoyle was to be thy husband. I did 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*47 


not know what to say, and I knew he would 
ask thy father for thee.” 

“Oh, will they tell father?” said Dorothy 
piteously 

“ No, I don’t think so, only he may hear 
what I said.” 

“Why didst thou say so, Josiah ? Oh, 
what shall I do, father will never forgive me ! 
Oh, Josiah, do help me !” 

This appeal seemed to nerve Josiah to 
the utmost. “ Dorothy,” he said, “ thou 
knowest that whatever I did for thee, I did 
it thinking it the best thing to do. I thought 
perhaps thou hadst changed thy mind. As 


it is, if Charles Verschoyle has not asked thy 
father, he will do so now, though he and 
thou shouldst both refuse him.” 

“ I shall not see him again,” she said. 
“He was angry to-day because I knew father 
would refuse, and so he left me.” And the 
fresh grief, pressing on old sorrows newly 
awakened, Dorothy broke down, declaring 
she deserved it all. “ I have forgotten every- 
thing, and deceived every one,” she cried , — 1 
“ father, and him, and thee, and now I must 
bear the punishment.” And, in her shame 
and grief, she hid her face in her hands. 

Josiah entreated her not to give way. He 



Paj^e 148. 


was certain, he said, that he could prevent her j 
father from being very angry, but she had ; 
better let Charles Verschoyle write to him. 

Not knowing Josiah’s reasons for urging ; 
this, Dorothy declared such a thing to be 
impossible, as she had given Captain Vers- 
chovle her decision, and they had, she feared, 
parted for good. Aunt Abigail’s voice was 
now heard, and Dorothy had only time to 
run away, fearing that her eyes, red with weep- 
ing, might attract her aunt’s attention. 

When she again made her appearance, she 
complained of a headache, and Aunt Abigail 


coupling her silence and depression with 
Josiah’s visit, concluded that he had been 
further urging his suit. He remained to an 
early dinner with them, and vainly endea- 
voured to speak again to Dorothy. But Aunt 
Abigail, having made up her mind that the 
dear child should not be worried any further, 
gave him no opportunity, and he was obliged 
to leave them, still uncertain how he should 
act for the best. 

Josiah was quite aware of Dorothy’s posi- 
tion, and how her conduct would be viewed 
among Friends. She would be regarded 




DOROTHY FOX. 


14S 

henceforth as a forward, frivolous girl, un- 
worthy to be trusted, and not properly en- 
dowed with maidenly reserve. This would 
be the opinion of the most charitable, but 
those who lacked the chief Christian virtue 
would probably not spare her in thought and 
word ; and to a proud man like Nathaniel, 
this scandal would be bitter indeed. How 
could it be lessened? A brilliant idea en- 
tered Josiah’s mind. Surely, if Charles Vers- 
choyle loved Dorothy as well as he did — he 
would be equally anxious that no breath of 
scandal should dim the purity of her actions. 
Josiah felt that he could explain the whole 
circumstances to him, and ask him to write to 
Nathaniel. Her father would then screen 
Dorothy by saying that his consent had been 
asked to her marriage, but that he had with- 
held it on account of difference of principles. 

Many men would have sneered at the 
young Quaker’s Quixotic love. They would 
have doubted its existence, perhaps, and con- 
sidered that to have seen the girl who had 
refused him well served out, would be sweeter 
revenge than trying to spare her anxiety or 
sorrow. But this was not Josiah’s nature ; he 
had always thought that Dorothy would find 
it hard to love him, and he cared for her none 
the less because his fears now had been 
realised. True he did not go through all 
these interviews and communings with him- 
self without many a sad heart-ache and regret ; 
but even these did not make him feel bitter 
to her. If a slight shadow ever had come 
over him, one look at her had charmed it 
away. Captain Verschoyle, however, acted 
on him in a contrary manner ; his presence 
caused flames of anger and hatred to spring 
up from the ashes which only smouldered 
within Josiah’s breast. So it was no easy 
task to seek a meeting with him. Josiah 
was certain that in presence of his rival 
he should feel awkward and be unable pro- 
perly to explain his errand. Still it seemed 
the best thing for him to do. He spent several 
hours in deciding one thing, and then changing 
his mind ; going half-way to the station and 


turning back, walking some little distance, 
regretting his decision, and making a second 
and fruitless attempt to catch a train which 
had almost started as he began running. At 
length he made a desperate resolution and 
arrived at Darington just before dinner. 

Captain Verschoyle and Mr. Egerton had 
just come in after a long ride, and were dis- 
cussing the necessity of attending to Lady 
Laura’s summons. 

“ I cannot think what they mean,” said 
the younger man. 

“ Mean !” replied Mr. Egerton ; “ nothing, 
no woman ever does — they are tired of 
quarrelling together, and want you to join 
them. Take my advice, and don’t.” 

“ I left them like turtle-doves,” said Cap- 
tain Verschoyle, “on account of Audrey 
having determined to sacrifice herself to that 
old Ford I told you of. Well, I shall not go 
to-morrow, I’ll write to my mother and ask her 
what she means. I don’t want to leave now.” 

“ No,” said the old man slyly ; “ tell her 
that Fox-hunting is just beginning.” 

Captain Verschoyle would not understand 
the allusion, and his companion continued, 
“ Capital sport, but the best men get a 
cropper sometimes.” 

“Ah, well!” replied Captain Verschoyle, 
bent on remaining ignorant; “there’s not 
much fear of me, I’m an old hand.” 

“ I’ll tell you what, Charlie ” but he was 

interrupted by the man opening the door and 
saying to Captaan Verschoyle, “ If you please, 
sir, there’s a gentleman in the library as 
wishes to see you ; he told me to say Josiah 
Crewdson.” 

Mr. Egerton gave a long whistle. “ I’ll be 
your second, Charlie, — if he’s come in a 
blood-thirsty spirit,” he said ; “ or if he only 
wants a peaceable fight, tell him I’ll have a 
; round with him while you’re getting your 
wind, for I fear the little chap’s more than a 
I match for you.” But Captam Verschoyle paid 
no attention to this sally, he only sat for an 
instant frowning, and then meditatively asked, 

| “ Now what can he want with me ?” 


WHAT’S THE MATTER. CHARLIE? HAS ANYTHING GONE WRONG? 





































































% . 

























































* 







f 









it 





















i ■ 












DOROTHY FOX. 


*5 


3?-AJR,T 3CEE. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. — TWO WAYS OF LOOKING 
AT IT. 

INNER had 
been served 
and Mr. 
E g e r t o n 
was half 
through his 
soup before 
Captain 
Verschoyle 
made his 
appearance. 

“You must 
pardon me 
for being 
late, sir,” 
he said, 
with a look 
on his coun- 
t e n a n c e 
which 
checked the 

banter in which his old friend had been 
about to indulge. 

Captain Verschoyle several times during 
dinner broached topics of conversation, but 
with such an effort that they invariably broke 
down. At length, when they had drawn up 
to the fire, and there was no chance of being 
disturbed, the old man laid his hand kindly 
on his companion’s shoulder, saying, “What’s 
the matter, Charlie ? has anything gone 
wrong ?” 

Captain Verschoyle gazed gloomily into 
the fire, as he answered — 

“ No, nothing has gone wrong, only Mr. 
Crewdson has just shown me that I am a 
cowardly scoundrel.” 

“ Ah ! I’ve had the same idea myself,” 
growled Mr. Egerton ; then, raising his voice, 
he added, “ but, confound his impudence, he 
needn’t come here to tell you that.” 

“ I have been sneering at that man since 
ever I saw him,” continued Captain Vers- 
choyle, speaking to himself, and giving no 
heed to Mr. Egerton’s remarks. “ I thought 
him one of the biggest fools in the world. I 
scarcely thought him worthy of common 
civility, and turned up my eyes at the bare 
idea of any woman bestowing a thought on 
him. Now, if any one asked me to name a 
man of honour and a gentleman, I’d say 
Josiah Crewdson.” 


“Why, what for?” said Mr. Egerton, in 
considerable amazement. 

Captain Verschoyle suddenly jumped up, 
pushed his chair aside, and exclaimed, “ I’ve 
been a coward, a villain, a scoundrel. You 
know, sir, it’s all about Miss Fox. Almost 
from the first time I saw her I cared for her 
more than I had ever done for any other girl. 
I tried all I could to make her think about 
me, and I wasn’t at peace until I was sure 
she loved me ; and then I thought I had 
done a foolish thing, and must get out of it. I 
came to you, but I persuaded her to go to York. 
And because she didn’t arrive there the very 
day I expected her, I, regardless of conse- 
quences to her, went off to Leeds to see her. 
Mr. Crewdson’s sisters, thinking she was 
going to marry their brother, did not approve 
of this, and said a great deal. I can’t quite 
explain it, but it seems that if a young lady 
of their persuasion receives a visit from a 
soldier, it in some way compromises her. 
And, though she had the day before refused 
young Crewdson, by Jove, sir ! he was plucky 
enough to defend her when she was attacked 
by his sisters, saying that I had her father’s 
consent, and was going to marry her.” 

“ Well, but wasn’t it true ? ” 

“ True ? no, I was playing a game of fast 
and loose with her. I pretended that I wanted 
to marry her, and that she was treating me 
very hardly because she dared not disobey 
her father, whose consent she was sure would 
never be given; and all the time I wanted 
to get out of it. I never intended to marry 
her. I knew I loved her better than all the 
world, but my pride wouldn’t allow me to 
make her my wife.” 

“ Of course not, as you said yourself, the 
very idea is absurd. Why, you told me her 
father kept a shop,” said Mr. Egerton. 

“ Absurd or not, I intend doing it.” 

“You do?” roared the old man in his 
gruffest voice. “You’ll surely never make 
such a fool of yourself. Why should you ? 
Who’ll be the wiser, except a few out-of-the 
way people, who, if they made their appear- 
ance among your set, would be laughed at. 
Nonsense, Charlie, you’ll think better of it.” 

“ I hope not,” said Captain Verschoyle 
firmly. “ One reason is, that I never rested 
until I had destroyed the peace of her inno- 
cent life, and caused her to reject a man who 
is a hundred times more worthy of her than 



* 5 2 


DOROTHY FOX. 


I am. Another is, that I love her with all my 
abominably selfish heart. And don’t think, 
sir, all this is caused by young Crewdson’s 
visit ; before he came I felt I couldn’t part 
with her, and intended seeing her to-morrow.” 

“ You’ll be cut,” said Mr. Egerton, nodding 
his head sen entiously ; “ nobody will receive 
her, and all your relations will turn their 
backs upon you.” 

“ Let them, it’s very little good they ever 
did me, except patronise me and make me 
discontented.” 

“ iou’ll require to leave your regiment. 
You can’t stay there, you know; and then 
good-bye to all your visions of military glory.” 

“ Yes, I know all that, but ” 

“ But you are determined to be an ass,” 
said the old man with a sneer ; “ and for 
whom ? The bnby-faced daughter of a country 
shop-keeper. Pshaw !” 

Captain Verschoyle turned scarlet, and 
then grew pale as he said, with his face to 
Mr. Egerton — 

“ Perhaps I may as well tell you, sir, that 
you have now reached the limit of my for- 
bearance. If Miss Eox will honour me with 
her hand, I shall be as proud of being her 
husband as if she were the daughter of a duke. 
And when she is my wife, I will take care that 
no one treats her with less respect than they 
would if the bluest blood in England flowed 
in her veins.” 

Mr. Egerton jumped up, and slapped his 
godson on the back. 

“ Give me your hand, Charlie, for I’m proud 
of you,” he cried. “ The world hasn’t spoiled 
you yet, my boy, and you’re worthy of your 
father’s name. As for young Crewdson, here's 
three cheers for him, and good luck to him 
next time. He’s a Briton, that fellow, 
though he is a Quaker.” 

There was some further giving way to their 
mutual good feelings, and then Mr. Egerton 
said — 

“ Come now, let us have up some more 
wine, and then we’ll settle to business, for we 
have forgotten one very important point ; ” 
and making an inexpressibly droll face he 
said, “ How about your mother ?” 

“ Yes, I have thought about her, and I see 
no way of managing her. Of course the 
Hanburys.will consider I have acted unfairly 
to them as well as to Dorothy, and will feel 
keenly any slight my mother m^ht put upon 
her.” 

“ Humph ! I don’t often take a scheme 
in hand, and it’s fnany a year since I tackled 
her ladyship ; but we have had tilts before 
now, and I have not always^ come off second 


best. What do you say, will you trust your 
cause to me ?” 

“ Most thankfully.” 

“Well, I shan’t explain my tactics, but 
I’ll do my best to show my talent as a 
diplomatist.” 

Captain Verschoyle laughed heartily at the 
idea of the encounter. “ I shall go and see 
Dorothy to-morrow morning,” he said, “ and 
after that I shall decide my movements. I 
hope, after all, her father will be brought 
to give his consent.” 

“ Of course he will,” replied Mr. Egerton ; 
“ and after you have seen the young lady I 
shall call upon her and Miss Fletcher. I’ll 
forgive your getting married, Charlie, since 
she is not one of those town madams whose 
hollow shams would have been more than 
your old godfather could have swallowed. 
She has a sweet innocent face, and if it is in 
the power of a woman to make a man happy, 
she ought to do it.” 

Before twelve o’clock the following day 
Captain Verschoyle arrived at Miss Fletcher’s 
house, where he inquired for Miss Fox. 

“ Please, sir, they’re gone,” said the little 
maid. 

“Gone!” said Captain Verschoyle. 
“ Gone where ?” 

“ I don’t know, please, sir ; but mistress 
and Miss Dorothy went away an hour ago to 
the train. Perhaps you’d like to see Jane.” 

So Jane came, but all the information she 
could give was, that a letter had come which 
had caused them to leave unexpectedly, and 
she rather thought Miss Dorothy had returned 
home. She could not say for certain, how- 
ever, as mistress did not say ; she only told 
her she would write when they reached their 
journey’s end. 

Captain Verschoyle did not wait to hear 
more, he rushed away hardly stopping to draw 
breath until he reached the station ; but the 
London train had gone. He asked one or 
two of the porters if two ladies — whom he 
described— had been passengers by it, and 
one man said “Yes,” but whether they were 
going to London or not he could not say. 

Captain Verschoyle returned to Darington, 
consulted with Mr. Egerton, wrote a letter to 
Nathaniel Fox, and by the next morning’s 
train started with his old friend for London. 

Mr. Egerton was dropped at his club, but 
Captain V erschoyle went on to Egmont Street. 
Her ladyship was in her own room, and 
thither her son, by her desire, proceeded to 
see her. “Why, mother, what’s the matter?” 
he exclaimed, as soon as their first greetings 
were over, and they were alone. “ I expected 


DOROTHY FOX. 


153 


) 


to find you tearing your hair, and Audrey in 
a strait-waistcoat. Where is she?” 

“ Oh, don’t speak of her, Charles ! and 
lay aside all jesting, for I assure you our 
trouble is a very serious one.” 

Captain Verschoyle looked very grave as 
he drew a chair to the fire, and sat down 
prepared to listen to the domestic tragedy. 
“ What has she been doing?” he asked. 

“ I need not tell you, Charles, all I have 
sacrificed for that ungrateful girl.” 

“ No, mother,” quickly interposed her son, 
dreading a repetition of the oft-told tale. “ I 
know you have been very good to us both.” 

“ Yes ; but you can never understand how 
entirely I have forgotten myself for her sake. 
You remember the new dresses I gave her so 
recently to go to Dyne Court with, and the 
trouble I had to get an invitation. I nearly 
asked Mr. Ford for it, entirely on her ac- 
count ; for certainly I should not have 
sought to be the guest of a man who had' 
probably been one of your grandfather’s 
tradespeople. But as I thought it was to 
secure her a good establishment, I was con- 
tent. The man paid her the greatest atten- 
tion, and she seemed delighted with her pros- 
pect, and quite secure of the match. Sud- 
denly, and apparently without any reason, she 
informed me that she could not marry Mr. 
Ford, and asked me to take her away. Well, 
oft' we went, and I so managed that the old 
man never suspected the cause, but set it 
down to my nervous fears about her health. 
Of course I tried to discover her reason for 
this extraordinary conduct, and I was led to 
believe it was owing to a whim of which she 
began to feel rather ashamed. You know 
how all this would try my nerves : my dear 
boy, I assure you they felt shattered. When 
your Aunt Spencer asked me to go to Beau- 
wood for a lew days, I felt it was a duty to 
accept, and went, though very reluctantly. 
And would you believe it, Charles, while I 
was absent Mr. Ford came here, and that 
miserable girl refused him. He’s a million- 
naire ! — a Croesus ! His wealth is fabulous ! 
Fie could give her a?iything she wished for, 
and make any settlement we chose to name ; 
and she absolutely refused to marry him ! ” 

“ Well, you have amazed me !” exclaimed 
Captain Verschoyle — “ she seemed to have 
made up her mind to have the old fellow. 
But really, mother ” 

“ Wait. You have not heard the worst,” 
interrupted Lady Laura. “ Let me give you 
her reason.” 

“ Oh ! there is a reason ?” 

“ Yes. The reason is” — and here her lady- 


ship bowed her head in mock obedience to 
her daughter’s decision — “that she has ac- 
cepted, and intends to become the wife of 
that poverty-stricken, quixotic fellow Dyne- 
court.” 

“ By Jove ! You don’t mean that ? Audrey 
marry Dynecourt. Impossible !” 

“ It shall be, if I can make it so. The 
idea of the man having the impertinence to 
propose to a girl like Audrey, my daughter, 
on an income of six hundred a year. He 
came, too, with as much assurance as if 
it had been sixty thousand. I think I rather 
surprised him. I did not spare them, I as- 
sure you, and he could not say a word, but sat 
looking at Audrey, who, with great want of deli- 
cacy, came into the room ten minutes after he 
arrived, and said she desired to be present.” 

“ Well, mother, you have electrified me ! 
Wonders will never cease ! Fancy Audrey 
marrying for love !” 

Jfepood gracious, Charles! is that the 
way you take it?” exclaimed Lady Laura. 
“ Have you so little affection for your sister 
that you can calmly allow her to disgrace 
herself by marrying a man who can only give 
her a poky house in a bye street, and a new 
bonnet once a year?” 

“ Don’t be absurd, mother. You know 
Dynecourt comes of as good a family as any 
man in England, and as far as the name 
goes, there's not a woman living but might be 
proud to bear it.” 

“ May I ask you if people can live on 
their long pedigree and ancient name?” 

“ Certainly not ; but Audrey and Dyne- 
court are not wholly dependent on these. I 
know you must be disappointed, mother, 
because you have always hoped so much for 
her. And I would rather she had chosen a 
man who was able to give her what, at least, 
she has been accustomed to ; but as to the 
two men, although Ford is a very decent 
fellow, I congratulate myself on my exchange 
of brothers-in-law.” 

“ Thank you, Charles,” said his mother, in 
her most severe tone ; “ I might have known 
if there was any way by which you could 
add to my annoyance you would choose it. 
Why I should trouble myself about you and 
Audrey I cannot tell, for never was a mother 
so utterly disregarded and scoffed at.” 

“ Don’t say that, for you know it is not 
true, mother. But if you and I were to talk 
for ever, we cannot alter the fact that Audrey 
loves this man, and knowing that, I do not 
see that we have any right to prevent her 
marrying him because he does not happen to 
have as much money as we wish. She has 


54 


DOROTHY FOX. 


to accept the wants, and do without the 
luxuries, and if she is content, let us try and 
make the best of it, and not damp all the 
poor girl’s happiness.” 

“ I’ll do nothing of the kind ! ” exclaimed 
Lady Laura, passionately. “/ see through 
it all Ydur sister and you may be very 
clever, but you cannot blind me. You 
have been laying your plans together to 
wheedle me out of a trousseau and a wedding 
such as she wants. You may both save your- 
selves the trouble, for I assure you, if she 
and her fine lover choose to marry, they can 
do so when and how they please, but not one 
farthing do they get from me.” 

“ Come, come, mother, you don’t mean 
that.” 

“ Indeed, Charles, I do mean it.” 

“ What ! you will allow your only daughter 
to leave her home as if she had no one in 
the world to care for her but the man who is 
taking her from it ?” 

“ My only daughter has shown no mtfre 
consideration for me than my only son.” 

“ Oh ! very well, then you compel me to 
take my father’s place,” replied Captain 
Verschoyle. “ I cannot give her much, but 
she shall have as good an outfit as I can 
provide, and I shall take apartments, from 
which she can be properly and decently 
married. However, long before it comes to 
this, mother, I trust your good sense and right 
feeling will ruturn ; just now you are allowing 
disappointment to get the better of you.” 

“ Charles, how dare you speak to me in 
this manner ! ” cried Lady Laura. “ Oh ! 
nobody else can have two such ungrateful, 
unfeeling children ! ” and she took refuge in 
her handkerchief. 

“ I had better leave you, or we may lose 
our tempers,” said her son, “ which would be 
injurious to you and very unbecoming in 
me and he walked out of the room. 

“ Poor old lady ! ” he Thought, “ she little 
dreams of the bitter draught which will follow 
this pill. We must let her get breath before 
anything of mine is mentioned. It is really 
hard lines for her, after all her hopes, to find 
us making such marriages as w r e two seem 
bent, upon.” 

“ I shall go down to Fryston to-morrow/* 
he continued ; “ I wonder if they have taken 
her there or to Devonshire. I expect it has 
turned out as Crewdson feared, and the old 
man has got scent of the thing. Serves me 
right for not doing it at once. But he must 
give in, for have her I will. Come in,” he 
said aloud, in answer to a knock at the door. 
“ Well ! you most inconsistent of all your in- 


consistent sex, come here and let me look at 
you, that I may see if you are some change- 
ling, or still my very sister Audrey.” 

“Oh, Charley, I am so glad to see you ! ” 

“ Ah ! you’re longing to have my scolding 
about this Dynecourt affair over. Now look 
at me, and answer the following questions. 
Have you well considered all you are going 
to give up ? For, according to mamma’s ac- 
count, you will have to do without a great 
many things very dear to you.” 

Audrey nodded her head. 

“ And you care sufficiently for this man to 
share his life?” 

“ Yes, I feel like dear old Elia. I wish 
I could throw the remainder of our joint 
existences into a heap, that we might share 
them equally. It is of no use disguising it, 
Charley ; I have taken the disease in its most 
aggravated form, and it’s going very hard 
with me.” Then, looking into his face, she 
said, “You will try to like him, Charley? 
and say you hope we may be happy.” 

“ I do from the very bottom of my heart,” 
he answered, kissing her. “And as for 
Dynecourt, he’s a capital fellow, and I shall 
be proud to call him brother. Why, Audrey, 
you crying ! I have not seen you cry since 
you were a child. Nonsense, you stupid 
thing. The old lady is a little on stilts just 
now, but she will come ail right, only give 
her time. You must not mind her being 
disappointed ; that is only natural, you know. 
When do you want to run away from us ? ” 

“ Oh, Geoffrey says as soon as we can get a 
house. I tell him he is afraid that I shall change 
my mind ; but there is no fear of that now.” 

“ Well,” said her brother, “ you know I 
will do all I can to smooth matters for you ; 
and if mamma is cross, we must not seem 
to notice it.” 

So, acting on this principle, they tried 
to make themselves pleasant and agreeable 
during dinner, but Lady Laura would have 
none of their amenities. She wore her most 
injured air, and seldom spoke, unless to beg 
her daughter not to laugh, as it jarred upon her 
nerves ; or to ask her son not to speak quite 
so loud, as her head would not stand it. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. TRUE TO EACH OTHER. 

“Audrey,” said Captain Verschoyle, as they 
sat chatting together next morning after break- 
fast, “ I’ve something to tell you. Do you 
know I am more in love than I ever was 
before ?” 

“You in love! Nonsense, Charley — not 
seriously ?” 

“ Yes, seriously,” he replied, stretching him- 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*55 


self, so as to appear quite at his ease ; “ so much 
so that I have asked the girl to marry me.” 

“Who is she?” exclaimed Audrey, in 
amazement. “Any one I know? Not 
Miss Bingham ?” 

“ No,” laughed her brother, “ I think she 
had better marry old Ford, as a sort of squar- 
ing up of matters properly. But it’s somebody 
you have seen.” 

“ Some one I have seen. Oh ! I should 
never guess, Charlie, unless it be Edith Staple- 
ton ; but then she has only been a widow 
three weeks.” 

“ Don’t be absurd,” said Captain Vers- 
choyle ; “ what should put her into your 
head ? ” 

“ Why, because you were so desperately in 
love with her once. I remember when you 
heard she was going to marry Colonel Sta- 
pleton you were frantic, and walked in front 
of her window almost a whole night.” 

“ Yes, I recollect that too,” laughed Cap- 
tain Verschoyle ; “ that night cured me. I 
got a horrid cold, and sneezed all the love out 
of my head I suppose, for certainly it had 
never got beyond that weak part of my body.” 

“ And this is, you think, a different phase 
of the tender passion ? You have had much 
experience, you know, Charlie, within my 
memory.” 

“ Yes, but all differing from this. I know 
that naturally I am a very selfish fellow, but 
somehow I feel I could give up everything 
for the sake of this girl.” 

“ Do tell me who she is, Charles ; then I 
shall know whether I am to put faith in you.” 

“Well,” said Captain Verschoyle, feeling 
rather nervous, “ you remember that pretty 
Quaker child we saw at Plymouth ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then, regardless of grammar, that’s her.” 

“ Now I know you are laughing,” said Au- 
drey, puzzled to understand what he meant. 

“ Indeed I am not. I am quite serious. 
I will tell you all about it. When in London, 
after leaving Dyne Court, I went to the 
Paddington station to inquire about my boxes : 
there, to my surprise, I met Mrs. Fox and her 
daughter. They had come up to visit another 
daughter, a Mrs. Hanbury, who lives at Fryston. 
And seeing they were in a dilemma because 
of not meeting her as they had expected, I, in 
return for their kindness to me, volunteered 
to conduct them safely to Shoreditch. Mrs. 
Hanbury took me for a friend of her mother’s, 
and invited me to dinner. As I was alone, 
and did not know very well how to pass my 
time, I accepted, and went down the next 
day. I found they lived in a charming house. 


knew very nice people — Dynecourt, by the 
way, visited there — and altogether were a 
most refined and agreeable family. Miss 
Fox was going to remain there, and perhaps 
that induced me to make another visit to 
them, and so it went on until I found myself 
over head and ears in love. At first I thought 
it would share the fate of my other amours, 
and the flame would die out before it was 
well kindled. But instead of that it has gone 
on increasing, until I am worried with fears 
that her bigoted old father, who has a horror 
of soldiers, won’t give his consent, and the 
child, I believe, would be frightened to death 
at the idea of marrying without it.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you have asked 
her father?” said Audrey, in amazement. 

“ Of course I have. What else would you 
have me to do ?” replied her brother sharply. 

“ Well, I suppose, nothing,” said Audrey; 
“ only I wonder if you remember — ” and she 
stopped, not knowing how to finish her 
sentence. 

“ I know what you mean,” said Captain 
Verschoyle, in a defiant voice ; “ you wonder 
because he keeps a shop ; and suppose 
he does, what difference does that make to 
her, or to my love for her ? She is as much 
a lady in education, thought, and feeling as 
any one I know.” 

“ Oh ! I am sure of that, Charlie. You 
remember how much I admired her, and how 
astonished I was to find that you had not 
been more impressed with her beauty. Still I 
must say I am surprised at your having 
overcome all the notions you have hitherto 
held. It will be very awkward for you ; 
everybody will naturally ask ‘ who was she ?’ ” 

“ Well ! and let them ask. I do not care. 
If they have no more feeling for me than that, 
I am well rid of such friends. Am I to 
break the heart of a dear, sweet, loving girl, 
who, I know, would make my whole life 
good and happy, because her father does not 
happen to have a position in the great world ? 
Suppose Dynecourt’s father, or Dynecourt 
himself, kept a shop, what would you do?” 

“ Help him in the business now, my dear ; 
but had such been the case I am not quite 
certain that I should have so readily fallen in 
love with him.” 

“ Had I seen Dorothy surrounded by any- 
thing but refinement, neither should I. Re- 
member when I first saw her and mistook 
the servant for her mother, I never gave her 
a thought. But when 1 met her and her 
relations, perfect in manner and breeding, 
and with all the luxuries and elegancies of 

wealth about them, the whole thing was 
: ' 


56 


DOROTHY FOX. 


changed. In the same way you thanked 
Mr. Ford for the honour he had conferred 
on you by proposing that you should become 
the mistress of Dyne Court. But had he 
kept the establishment of his early days and 
walked from behind the counter to entreat 
you to be Mrs. Richard Ford, you would 
have told him he was ready for a lunatic 
asylum, or he could never have forgotten the 
difference between your station and his own.” 

“ Quite true, Charlie dear,” said Audrey, 
giving him a kiss. “ Still you must forgive 
me for expressing some astonishment, and 
also for asking you whether you have con- 
sidered all you are giving up. If you mar- 
ried without money, I suppose you would be 
obliged to sell out ? ” 

“ Yes. But really, Audrey, I am thoroughly 
sick of soldiering. Harry Egerton and I went 
into things the other night, and I should 
have about six hundred a year. I would 
much rather live in the country than in £he 
town. You know I hate balls and dinners. 
I am getting too old for such things. A snug 
little place and a sweet little wife are a great 
deal more to my fancy now.” 

“ Oh, you dear old thing ! ” laughed his 
sister, giving him another hug. “ I believe it 
is true. Why you are getting absolutely 
romantic. Of course she is dreadfully in love 
with you 1 ” 

“ Well, I believe she is,” said Captain 
Verschoyle, “ but the last time I saw her I 
gave way to my abominable temper and 
went off in a huff.” He then proceeded to 
relate that the next morning, being repentant, 
he had called, but found that Dorothy and 
her aunt had left. “ But I fancy they 
have only gone to Fryston, and I shall run 
down there in an hour’s time to see. I do 
hope the old man will write to me. I quite 
expected to have had an answer to my letter 
this morning. I do not see that he can say 
anything but ‘Yes,’ for, to satisfy his scruples 
of conscience, I offered to give up my pro- 
fession.” 

The sister and brother had a little more 
conversation about their future hopes and 
plans, and then Captain Verschoyle started 
for Fryston. He would have felt very un- 
easy about his reception, had his thoughts 
not been engrossed with Dorothy. He had 
no doubt that she would forgive him, espe- 
cially when he told her he had written to her 
father offering for her sake to become a man 
of peace. 

Fryston Grange, even in winter, when 
the trees were no longer clothed with their 
ieafy coverings, was a pretty place. As 


Captain Verschoyle walked towards the house 
he felt he had very little to offer Dorothy in 
comparison with the comforts her sister en- 
joyed. Love was beginning to work a com- 
plete change in the man’s nature. It was 
making him uncertain of his own merits and 
doubtful as to his success. He had seldom 
felt more thoroughly ill at ease than he did 
during the few minutes he sat in Mrs. Han- 
bury’s drawing-room, waiting for her to make 
her appearance. 

The door opened, and instead of Grace, 
Dorothy came to meet him. How was it 
that Charles Verschoyle, feeling more love 
for her than he had ever done before, seemed 
all at once utterly incapable of giving ex- 
pression to it? Josiah Crewdson himself 
could not have been more embarrassed. He 
stood holding both her hands in his until 
Dorothy looked into his face for the cause of 
his changed manner. But the gaze she met 
must have satisfied her, for the blood came 
rushing to her cheeks as she stammered — 

“ I am so glad to see thee again. Grace 
is not at home ; she has taken Aunt Abigail 
for a drive.” 

“ I do not deserve this happiness, 
Dorothy,” Captain Verschoyle at last got 
power to say ; “but I have been wretched 
since our last meeting.” 

And the next half-hour was taken up in 
listening to all the self-inflicted woes and 
torments only pleasing to the ears of those 
for whom they are endured. After this, their 
hopes and fears regarding her father’s con- 
sent being obtained had to be discussed, and 
then Captain Verschoyle looked very grave 
as he said — 

“ Dorothy, I have done much that needs 
to be forgiven by you.” 

Dorothy looked up surprised. 

“Yes,” he added; “I fear had you pos- 
sessed more worldly knowledge, and read 
me truly, you would never have given me 
your love. I had no right to ask it from you I 
when I did, but I was so anxious to hear that 
the treasure which I coveted was mine that 
I did not care what you suffered. I had no 
right to go to York, or to induce you to go 
there, without first speaking to your family ; 
it was taking advantage of the trusting inno- 
cence of a child — for such you are compared 
with me, Dorothy. And it was selfishness that 
took me to Leeds, causing me to be utterly 
unmindful of how much you might suffer for 
it. Oh, my darling ! I cannot forgive myself.” 

“ But I can forgive thee,” she said, putting 
her hand into his. “ I too acted wrongly in. 
going to see the Crewdsons, because I knew 


DOROTHY FOX. 


father would not approve of thee ; but, 
Charles, thou hast told him thou wilt give up 
being a soldier ?” 

“ Yes, dear. Dorothy, I have but little to 
offer you. I am but a poor man, as well as 
a very indifferent and selfish one.” 

She put her hand across his mouth, saying — 

“ Thou shalt not say so to me.” 

“ Ah ! but it is true,” he laughed, delighted 
at her sweet contradiction ; “ but if my Dolly 
will but try, I think she will make me, if not a 
Quaker, at least a better and a happier man.” 

An hour passed before Captain Verschoyle 
rose to go. “ I shall now see Mr. Hanbury,” 
he said, “ and you will tell your sister I came 
purposely to talk to her, and that if she will 
permit me I shall come again on Wednesday 
or Thursday, or whenever I hear from your 
father.” He held her from him, and looking 
into her face, said earnestly, “He cannot, I 
think, say No; but, Dorothy, if he should, 
would you give me up?” 

“ No, Charles, I cannot take back my love. 
Whatever comes now, it is thine for ever.” 

“ Then mine is yours ; and, child, if we are 
but true to each other, surely God will help us.” 

CHAPTER XL. SUCCESSFUL DIPLOMACY. 

When Captain Verschoyle next met Mr. 
Egerton, he told his old friend that he had 
seen Dorothy at Fryston, and had made all 
straight with John Hanbury. “ He does not 
give me much hope of obtaining Mr. Fox’s 
consent,” he said. “ It seems he had set his 
heart upon his daughter marrying young 
Crewdson, who is uncommonly rich, so I 
daresay, besides his horror at having a soldier 
for a son-in-law, he will think I have not 
money enough.” 

“ Horror ! ” repeated the old gentleman. 
“ Why should a parcel of Quakers turn up 
their noses at honest men because they’re 
soldiers? Confound their ingratitude, if I 
come across old Fox I’ll give him a bit of my 
mind. His principles, forsooth ! What would 
have been the good of his principles in Siberia 
or some such outlandish place, where we 
might all have been in prison now hadn’t it 
been for such as you ? though I daresay,” 
he added, fearing he was scattering his praise 
too freely, “you did not manage to find 
yourself in front when the fighting began.” 

Captain Verschoyle laughed at this impu- 
tation on his gallantry, and the old man con- 
tinued — 

“ James Allan, of York, is a connection of 
the Foxes, and I was asking about them ; he 
says they are very wealthy people. Of course 
you know that ? ” 


1 57 


“No. I do not believe they are wealthy ; 
but I have not given money a thought. I 
have no doubt they are tolerably well off — 
nothing more.” 

“ Positively, your attachment is quite Ar- 
cadian in its simplicity,” said Mr. Egerton 
with one of his old sneers. “ Have you 
spoken to your mother yet ? ” 

“No; I am leaving that to you. I was 
thinking if we could only get her to take up 
the cudgels we might gain an easy victory.” 

“ A very sensible idea, by Jove ! I should 
like to see your mother tackle the broad 
brimmers.” 

“If we could only manage an interview 
between her and Mr. Fox,” said Captain 
Verschoyle, laughing at the absurdity of the 
thought, but without any idea of carrying it 
into practice. 

“We’ll do it, Charlie,” exclaimed Mr. 
Egerton, delighted at the prospect of such an 
encounter, “ and I’ll back her ladyship. So 
to-morrow I shall call at Egmont Street about 
twelve o’clock; and be sure that you and 
Audrey are out of the way.” 

The scheme which Mr. Egerton had formed 
for obtaining Lady Laura’s consent to her 
ron’s mesalliance was founded on the in- 
formation he had obtained in York respecting 
Nathaniel Fox find his family. There was 
no doubt that Nathaniel was a rich man, for 
to his own money had been added his wife’s 
fortune. Besides this, Dorothy would be 
certain to inherit the portion which her 
grandfather had left to her Aunt Abigail. 
Therefore, quite unconsciously, Charles had 
wooed an heiress, and Mr. Egerton knew that 
wealth was the open sesame to Lady Laura’s 
heart. 

Arrived at Egmont Street, Mr. Egerton 
put Lady Laura in good humour at once, 
by saying, apparently to himself, in his 
gruffest voice, “Hum ! younger than ever. 
Some people don’t know how to get old ; ” 
whereupon Lady Laura was most cordial in her 
greeting, and became quite interested in an 
attack of gout he had lately suffered from. 

At length he said, “ Oh ! by the way, I 
suppose I ought to congratulate you on getting 
rid of that shop-chandler son-in-law w'hom 
Audrey had set her mind upon giving you 
when I last heard from you.” 

Lady Laura winced. 

“ Abominable old bear,” she thought ; “ he 
w r ants to annoy me, but he shall not be grati- 
fied by seeing it,” so without appearing at all 
vexed she said, “ Thanks — although I do not 
know that I care much for the exchange she 
has made.” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


153 


“Well, but Dynecourt comes of an ex- 
cellent family,” continued Mr. Egerton. 

“ Granted ; only when people are not 
worth a penny, their family is of little im- 
portance.” 

“ Still, you would rather have a man of 
your own class for a son-in-law, I suppose.” 

“ I should not have objected to Mr. Ford,” 
said Lady Laura, smiling blandly ; “ and I 
wonder at your asking me about it. I thought 
you were so fond of the bourgeoisie, that you 
considered they conferred honour upon us 
in the alliances which we formed with them.” 

" I don’t know about that,” replied Mr. 
Egerton. “ I think they generally get the 
worst of the bargain.” 

Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders. “ I 
look upon the matter as a fair exchange,” 
she said. “ If they did not want blood, they 
would not marry us ; and if we did not want 
money, assuredly we should never marry 
them. Had I a fortune to give to Audrey 
and Charles, I should expect they would 
make their choice from their own set. But 
as wealth has been denied to us, I do not 
consider that my son or my daughter will 
lose caste if they marry persons connected 
with business, provided their fortunes are 
sufficiently ample to silence people’s remarks, 
or give a soup^on of enfy to those they 
make.” 

“ Very sensibly put,” exclaimed Mr. Eger- 
ton. “ I wish I had only known that your 
sentiments were so liberal, Lady Laura. I 
always imagined you had a horror of every- 
body connected with trade.” 

“ Well, trade is an odious word, certainly ; 
but no one regards a wealthy man, like Mr. 
Ford, for instance, as a common shopkeeper.” 

“ Still, I have heard that he kept a shop, 
or his father did before him.” 

“ Oh dear !” exclaimed Lady Laura, raising 
her hand with a deprecatory movement. “ In 
these days of parvenus, fathers are ignored, 
and it is the worst possible taste to talk of 
any family but your own ; if that happens to 
be good, speak of it by all means, for these 
people worship rank and breeding.” 

“ Two things their money can’t buy, eh !” 

“ Of course not. They must gain them 
by reflection, so they marry into good fami- 
lies — a very laudable thing too; they are 
then received into society on account of the 
wife’s or husband’s standing.” 

“ Ah ! I wish I had known your opinions 
before,” said Mr. Egerton mysteriously. 

“ Why ? For what reason ?” 

“ Well,” replied the old man with a charm- 
ing air of candour, “ perhaps I ought not to 


speak of it ; but I hate secrets, and as you’re 
his mother, it cannot much matter.” 

Lady Laura threw off her nonchalant air 
at once, and gave undivided attention to Mr. 
Egerton’s conversation. 

“ It appears that some time ago Charley’s 
fancy was taken by a very pretty girl he saw. 
He found that her father was a woollen ma- 
nufacturer, or something of that sort, in the 
West of England, so he tried to forget her. 
At York, however, they met by accident 
again, and then he told me about it, saying, 
as he knew you would never receive her, he 
should try to overcome his affection.” 

“ Most certainly not,” said Lady Laura 
firmly. 

“ Oh ! well then, that’s all right ; for since 
you have been talking I have been wondering 
if I had been to blame in the matter.” 

“ You to blame ! How ?” 

“ Well, of course, I made inquiries about 
the family, for her aunt happens to be a 
neighbour of mine. And, by Jove ! I dis- 
covered they are very wealthy people. The 
girl will have a large fortune from her father, 
besides her mother’s money and this maiden 
aunt’s.” 

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Lady 
Laura. “ What did Charles say ?” 

“ Oh ! I have never told him. I thought, if I 
did, perhaps he wouldn’t agree to give her up.” 

“ And why on earth should he, if she has 
all this money?” 

“ Why, as I told you, her father is a trades- 
man : may keep a draper’s shop, for anything 
I know.” 

“ My dear Mr. Egerton, nfcw you are too 
absurd. You know what Charles’s income 
is, and how extravagant his habits are. Un- 
less he marries a girl with money, what is he 
to do? Fte is tired of being a soldier, and 
wants a home ; and how is he to get one ? 
If the girl is at all decent, and has a fortune, 
and such prospects as you describe, he could 
not do better than marry her. And he ought 
to know that I have his happiness too much 
at heart to put any obstacle in his way.” 

Mr. Egerton’s brown eyes grew quite bright, 
and twinkled at the success of his scheme. 

“ You really surprise me ; I thought you 
would have been distracted about it,” he said. 
“ And you have not heard all yet, — they are 
Quakers !” 

“ Quakers !” echoed Lady Laura. “What, 
those people who wear the horrid bonnets 
and grey gowns ? Oh ! Charles must have 
known she had money. No man could 
fall in love with a woman disguised in that 
manner. Impossible !” 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*59 


“ Is it ? I can tell you, my dear lady, I 
have not seen anything so sweet for a very 
long time ; she’s as fresh as a blush rose. ! 
If all the women are like her, I ought 
to thank my stars I was not brought up a 
broad-brimmer.” 

“ Then you have seen her?” she asked. 

“ Yes, she was staying at Leeds with some 
people I know, and I offered to escort her to ] 
York, knowing nothing about Charlie, you 
see.” 

“ And Charles likes the girl, and you know 
she has lots of money, and is charming, and 


yet you are allowing her to slip through his 
fingers. What absurd notions men take into 
their heads, to be sure ! This, I suppose, then, 
was the cause of his giving up Miss Bingham 
and her ^50,000?” 

“Well, if he can get this girl, he need 
never repent that sacrifice.” 

“ You don’t mean it?” replied Lady Laura 
delighted. “ But have you made every in 
quiry ? Is your authority reliable ?” 

“ Oh ! her mother’s family have lived abou 
York for years; they are very quiet people 
spending little, and this girl’s father marrief 



twice, each time a lady with money. The 
Quakers are generally moneyed folk, you 
know. The girl’s mother was the second 
wife.” 

“ And Charles really admires her, and is 
trying to overcome it on my account ? ” said 
Lady Laura. “ Dear boy !” 

“ Well, perhaps I must not give him too 
much credit for self-denial !” laughed the old 
gentleman. “ To tell you the truth, he has 
proposed for her, and her father refuses his 
consent.” 

“And why? For what?” exclaimed her 
ladyship indignantly. 


“ The reason he gives is, that Charles is a 
soldier, and not a Quaker.” 

“ Oh ! those reasons can be easily over- 
come,” replied Lady Laura confidentially. 
“ Charles already intends to give up his pro- 
fession, which the old man need not know, 
and therefore will take as a concession to his 
wishes. Then he can go to the chapel with 
them for a little time ; that is often done. 
Sir Francis Charlton always went to early 
prayers with that rich Miss Jones until they 
were married, and I am sure those Dalrymple 
girls went for months to some little con- 
venticle because they wanted to catch Lord 


DOROTHY FOX. 


*6o 


Kilmarsh. I took Audrey there once, and I 
thought I should have died. However, we 
never went again, for before the end of the 
next week we heard he had married his old 
tutor’s daughter. Oh ! that can easily be 
managed. I must have a, talk with Charles. 

I shall tell him I feel much hurt at his want of 
confidence in his mother. My children never 
seem to comprehend that the one object of 
my life has been to make them happy.” 

“ It was rather rash of him, though,” said 
Mr. Egerton, “to propose without knowing 
whether the girl had a penny.” 

“ But don't you think he must have known 
something of it?” replied Lady Laura. 

“No; for he does not believe it now. 
The real motive which the father has for re- 
fusing Charles is, that he wants his daughter 
to marry a man to whom she was half engaged 
when she met Charles — a man of enormous 
wealth.” 

“ Now, is not that exactly like those rich 
people?” asked her ladyship in an injured 
tone. “ They are so fearfully avaricious ; all 
they think about is money. Odious old man ! 
And he would sacrifice his daughter?” 

“ Oh yes ! without a scruple,” replied Mr. 
Egerton. “ Her father thinks he ought to 
choose her husband for her.” 

“ Absurd !” exclaimed her ladyship. “ But 
what is their name?” 

“ Fox. The other members of the family 
favour Charles ; only the old man seems to 
be against him.” 

“ Well, I call it very, very unkind of 
Charles,” said Lady Laura, “ to allow all this 
to go on without mentioning it to his mother.” 

“Well, I daresay he would have done so, 
but he thought you had been worried enough 
lately. But now I shall tell him I have 
spoken to you, and that he had better act 
upon your advice, which we know is generally 
correct.” 

Mr. Egerton and Lady Laura parted mu- 
tually pleased with each other — he at the 
success of his undertaking, she at the prospect 
of her son securing a rich wife. For her ill- 
fortune with Audrey had shaken her confi- 
dence and made her fear that Charles would 
also disappoint her hopes. She saw now 
that these fears were not groundless. Accord- 
ing to Harry Egerton’s account he was partially 
ignorant of the girl’s expectations (not that she 
quite believed that) — still it savoured of im- 
prudence to propose without consulting her, 
and the sooner he married the better. 

So Lady Laura was impatient until she saw 
Captain Verschoyle. She then acted with 
much caution, speaking of little else than her 


great love for him, her desire to see him 
settled, and her readiness to promote his hap- 
piness in every way. She readily acceded to 
his request that she would call upon the 
Hanburys when Mr. Fox’s consent was 
obtained, and fixed the following Thursday 
for her visit. “ You can write and say that we 
are coming, Charles, and that will remove 
the awkwardness of a first meeting.” 

This prospect, and a letter from Miss 
Brocklehurst, somewhat softened her towards 
Audrey, who, she now knew, had already met 
Miss Fox. Audrey praised the young lady’s 
beauty, described the house and grounds, 
and did all in her power to strengthen her 
mother’s favourable opinion of the match. 

“ When I call I shall take you with me,” 
said Lady Laura, “ and remember that we go 
very quietly dressed. You can put on your 
brown silk, and I shall wear black, and Mar- 
shall must take the feather out of my bonnet.” 

“ Really, mamma,” said Audrey, “ I do not 
see any necessity for that.” • 

“ I daresay you do not ; but however little 
you may have appreciated it, I have made it 
my rule through life never to consider my- 
self when the happiness or interest of my 
children was at stake. When I visit these 
people I shall adapt myself as much as pos- 
sible to their habits and manners, and I trust, 
for your brother’s sake, Audrey, that you will 
endeavour to do the same.” 

CHAPTER XLI. — WHICH IS IT TO BE? 

Audrey did not require to don her most 
sober-looking dress, and Lady Laura’s bonnet 
continued to be adorned by the feather, foi 
the visit to Fryston had to be postponed. 
Next morning’s post brought a most decided 
refusal of Captain Verschoyle’s suit, to which 
Nathaniel Fox said his conscience and his 
principles alike forbade him to listen. 

Captain Verschoyle went at once to Mr. 
Hanbury’s office, but was told that John 
had not been there that morning. This de- 
cided him to take the train to' Fryston, and 
on reaching the Grange he learnt from Grace 
that on the previous evening her father had 
arrived from Leeds, and had that morning 
started for King’s-heart, taking Dorothy with 
him. “ She left this note for you,” said Grace, 
“ and I need not tell you in what distress 
the poor child was. I fear this is a hopeless 
case, Captain Verschoyle.” 

Captain Verschoyle read Dorothy’s note, 
and then he set his face firmly, as one who 
makes a strong resolve. 

“ No, Mrs. Hanbury,” he answered, “ it is 
not hopeless, and never shall be as long as 






DOROTHY FOX. 


r6i 


your sister is true to what she says here. 
She bids me hope on, and I will hope ever, 
and I believe we shall yet conquer.” 

So it was agreed that Charles Verschoyle 
should continue his visits to Fryston. There 
he would get all the tidings they could give 
him of Dorothy, and of the success of her plan 
to soften her father and get their wish granted. 

Nathaniel Fox had gone to Leeds to see 
Josiah Crewdson, and learn from him the 
reason for his assertion that Dorothy, with 
her fathers consent, was engaged to marry 
Charles Verschoyle. So taxed, Josiah had 
told Nathaniel the whole story, and his mo- 
tive for thus silencing his sisters’ indignant 
wrath. The old man had thanked him for 
dealing so kindly with them, and after a 
time, seeing that either he must bear the 
blame of inconsistency, or his daughter the 
shame of indecorum and levity, he decided 
to take refuge in that stronghold of Friends’ 
principles — silence. He would be silent to 
the rebukes ; listen — without defending him- 
self — to the condemnation ; and bear what- 
ever blame the members of the society chose 
to accord to him ; all this his conscience 
allowed. But to permit his daughter to 
marry a man of whom he knew nothing, and 
who belonged to a profession which he con- 
sidered ungodly and profane, was not to be 
thought of; therefore he decidedly said “ No.” 
J osiah tried every argument to move him, but 
in vain ; he only made him say angrily, that 
he had no reason to plead the cause of a 
woman who had treated him so unfairly. 

‘‘No,” said Josiah, “not so. She told 
me and thee she would strive to do as we 
wished. I believe she did strive and failed. 
I feel that I could have no chance with 
such a man as Charles Verschoyle, who, 
though a soldier, is no mere worldling. 
Never think I feel angry with Dorothy. 
Though she could not give me her love, 
she stirred up something within me which 
has given me a hope that some day I may 
again try my fate, and by this teaching, hard 
as it seems, succeed better.” 

So winter fairly set in, Christmas went past, 
and the new year was born. Audrey’s wedding 
was to take place within a week, and in the 
bustle of preparation Lady Laura ceased to 
scheme for obtaining the consent of that 
“ pig-headed, avaricious, wicked old' man,” as 
she persisted in calling Nathaniel Fox. 

Her ladyship had been several times to see 
Mrs. Hanbury. Between Grace and Audrey 
a mutual liking had sprung up which was 
likely to be increased as Geoflrey Dynecourt 
nad decided upon taking a house, at Fryston. 


All Lady Laura saw and learnt from 
Grace confirmed her belief that Dorothy was 
worth the exertions which she considered she 
was urging her son to make. So she de- 
cided that whenever Audrey was fairly off 
her hands, she would strain every nerve to 
bring matters to a favourable conclusion. 

Captain Verschoyle, on his part, was willing 
to listen to any scheme likely to give him 
what was now the one desire and wish ot 
his life ; but as week after week rolled on he 
grew more despondent. He had written to 
Mr. Egerton saying, that this suspense was 
so unendurable that he should come down to 
Darington to consult him. A letter which 
he received at this time from Lord Morpeth 
offering him, if he still thought of selling out, 
a colonial appointment, caused him to re- 
solve upon at once deciding his fate, and he 
started the next day for King’s-heart. 

Dorothy did not know that she was to see 
her lover that day, or she would have fancied 
that January had suddenly changed to June. 
As it was, the wintry sun striving to shine 
gave her no gladness ; it could not make the 
day bright for her. Poor Dorothy ! she had 
spent two weary months. Sometimes hope 
seemed so bright that nothmg could extin- 
guish it, at other times so dim that nothing 
could rekindle it. Pier mother’s face had a 
troubled anxious look, as if she knew that her 
child had a sorrow which she could not bear 
for her. And Dorothy’s languid movements 
and forced smiles seemed to add a sharper 
pang to Nathaniel’s heart. 

The unusually loud ring of the bell did not, 
as it used to do, make Dorothy run to the 
window, nor stand on the footstool or on 
tiptoe, to see who their visitor might be. 
Patience wondered who it was, but Dorothy 
did not care. When Lydia opened the door, 
it was Charles Verschoyle who stood on the 
threshold. 

It was several minutes before either Dorothy 
or he remembered more than that they had 
met again. After some little time had elapsed, 
Captain Verschoyle told his errand, and then 
he turned to Patience and said — 

“ Mrs. Fox, you are aware that my greatest 
wish is to have Dorothy for my wife. I 
asked her father for his consent, and he re- 
fused it because I was a soldier. In defer- 
ence to his scruples, I offered to give up my 
profession — still he refused. I have waited 
for two months hoping he would alter his 
decision, but he remains obstinate. Yester- 
day morning my uncle offered me a desirable 
appointment, and I have come l\ere to know 
whether I shall accept or refuse it. I have 


DOROTHY FOX. 


162 


no wish to influence Dorothy to disobey 
her father, but it she loves me as I love her, 
she will now consent to be my wife, and I 
shall accept Lord Morpeth’s offer. But if 
she feels that she cannot disregard her 
father’s wish, and that her love for me is not 
strong enough to overcome all obstacles, I 
shall remain in my profession. And as these 
rumours of disaffection in India will cause 
many regiments to be sent there, I shall at 
once apply for foreign service. This sus- 
pense has become to me unendurable. I 
feel it would either kill me or kill my love. 
Besides, after a certain point I consider that 
even parental obedience has a limit. We are 
all agreed that human love is not the growth 
of human will. Surely hearts, not hands, are 
meant when it is said, ‘ What God hath joined 
together let not man put asunder.’ Dorothy,” 
he continued, looking 'beseechingly towards 
her, H you have heard what I have said, your 
heart will decide ; tell me, which is it to 
be?” 

“ I will be thine,” she said, putting her 
hand in his. “Oh mother!” she cried, 
“remember what thou once told me I ought 
to feel. I do feel all that, and much more 
towards him. It is not want of love to thee 
and father which makes me choose as I do. 
Thou must forgive me ! ” 

“ I do, my child,” said Patience. “ I shall 
never blame thee, and I will do my best to 
soften thy father ; but before I can say 
more on this subject he must be consulted. 
Charles Verschoyle had better go to Ply- 
mouth and speak to thy father, and tell him 
what thou hast said in my presence. And 
when he comes home thou must be frank, 
and give him thy decision, with thy reasons 
for making it.” 

Captain Verschoyle carried out this arrange- 
ment, and the result was that after a length- 
ened v.and stormy interview Nathaniel de- 
manded three days for consideration, dur- 
ing which time Charles Verschoyle should 
hold no communication with Dorothy ; then 
he would give his answer. 

To this Captain Verschoyle was obliged to 
consent, although it was just then rather hard 
upon him, as it was impossible for him to 
stay in Plymouth and hear it. The day on 
which Nathaniel’s decision was to be given 
Audrey had fixed for her wedding ; a wedding 
that, notwithstanding all Lady Laura’s argu- 
ments against it, was to be a very quiet one. 

All her ladyship’s anger had vanished. 
She was well up in the Dynecourt pedigree, 
and alter giving some parvenu friend or 
monev- seeking mother a history of their 


long descent from almost royal ancestors, 
she would end by saying, — “ Of course I can 
say nothing to Audrey, for I made a love 
match myself, and refused the most eligible 
‘ parties ’ of that season for her dear father. 
Girls can very seldom secure everything. 
One must generally give up family or money, 
and I am quite content with the choice 
Audrey has made ; for, after all, money only 
buys toleration .” 

Happiness gave to Audrey’s face a softness 
which had been often wanting before, and when 
the wedding party returned from church Miss 
Brocklehurst declared that Audrey Dynecourt 
was better looking than ever Audrey Vers- 
choyle had been. Mr. Ford, by his own 
desire, was present, and he and Miss Brockle- 
hurst paid each other so many compliments, 
and were so determined to meet again, that 
Audrey whispered she thought she should call 
him “ God-papa.” 

Captain Verschoyle was in the highest 
spirits, for Nathaniel’s answer had come. 
He gave way at last, though under great pro- 
test. Only on condition that Charles Vers- 
choyle would wait a year for her, and promise 
not to take her out of England, should 
Dorothy be his wife. 

Lady Laura announced the fact herself to 
the assembled guests, and asked them to give 
her their congratulations. “ You are my true 
friends,” she said, “ and know that my one 
object in life has been my children’s welfare. 
In the choice each has made, they have fol- 
lowed the dictates of their own hearts. And 
though they may not have secured all those 
worldly advantages which many consider 
necessary to enjoyment, I, from experience, 
can tell them that in marriage love alone 
insures happiness, and having gained that, 
come what may, they are possessed of life’s 
true elixir.” 

CHAPTER XLII. LADY LAURA ACCEPTS THE 

SITUATION. 

Since Audrey’s marriage-day more than a 
year has elapsed, spring has come round, and 
Lady Laura, writing to Lady Spencer, who 
is spending the winter in Rome, says — - 

“My Dear Isabel, — I delayed writing to 
you until Charles’s wedding had taken place, 
knowing the kind interest you take in all that 
concerns me and mine. And now 1 have 
another piece of news to tell you, nothing less 
than that 1 am a grandmother ; and, do you. 
know ? 1 do not mind it in the least, but am 
rather proud ol it. 

“Yes, dear Audrey has a son — such a lovely 


DOROTHY FOX. 


iGt. 


boy ; nurse says he’s exactly like me. He 
was born at Dyne Court. Mr. Ford asked it 
as a particular favour to him, and I think 
Geoffrey was rather glad, as for more than 
two hundred years the eldest child has always 
been born at the family place. I hope great 
things from this circumstance, but Geoffrey 
and Audrey will not hear it mentioned, 
and say she went there on the understand- 
ing that it was only to further cement their 
friendship. I think I told you the on dit , 
that Maria Brocklehurst was to marry Mr. 
Ford. At first I laughed at the idea 
of a woman of her age, and with such 
a good fortune, dreaming of such a thing. 
However, I now begin to have some faith 
in the story. I wrote to her about it, 
and she replied in her brusque way, ‘ That 
it would be wiser for people to attend to 
their own affairs, and leave time to show 
whether there is any truth in reports/ 

“ And now for Charles. They were married 
on the ioth of last month. I did not go to 
the wedding as the weather was cold, and 
Charles was afraid the journey might be too 
much for me. Mrs. Hanbury, the bride’s 
sister, tells me everything went off extremely 
well, and Dorothy looked lovely. Tell 
Spencer I made her adopt the loose Grecian 
knot at the back of the head, and, as he 
said, it made her perfect. They have taken 
a pretty place in Essex for a year, wishing 
to be near Fryston, where Audrey and the 
Hanburys live. After all, Dorothy had a for- 
tune. Her father gave her ten thousand 
pounds on her wedding morning, so that 


will make a nice addition to their rather 
limited income. My own plans are not 
quite decided. I think I shall give up this 
house and take apartments. Now that my chil- 
dren are settled, I intend confining my visit- 
ing circle to my relations and especial friends, 
among whom, my dear Isabel, you and your 
family stand pre-eminent. I long for your 
return, that you may see Audrey. She is 
wonderfully improved — looks so handsome, 
and is younger than ever. I never saw such 
] devotion as there is between her and Geoffrey, 
and 1 am quite certain that Charles and 
Dorothy will be just such another pair. I 
! need not tell you what comfort I derive from 
the contemplation of their happiness, nor how 
thankful I am that I was enabled to cast 
aside all my more ambitious projects for 
them. After all, my dear Isabel, the pleasures 
of the world — rank, wealth, fame — all fail to 
give us complete hdppiness unless we have 
some one to love and to love us. The older 
we grow, the more we value a blessing which 
can sweeten joy and alleviate grief. Now, I 
daresay you are laughing at me, and thinking 
that I am growing romantic in my old days. 
Well, perhaps it is from seeing so much love- 
making, or the result of finding myself a 
grandmother. But I certainly feel twenty 
years younger than I did this time last year, 
and if you and dear Spencer would only make 
haste and return to England, and tell me 
that I am looking so, you would make 
perfectly happy, 

“ Your most affectionate, 

“ Laura Verschoyle.” 













































































































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